Bad Cop
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: The night House was arrested, everything changed. Totally AU some OOC. Warning contains curse words, references to a slash relationship between House and Wilson mentions of rape, assault, and child abuse. Spoilers for fools for love.
1. Before and After

"There ain't no reason things are this way.  
Its how they always been and they intend to stay.  
I can't explain why we live this way, we do it everyday.  
Preachers on the podium speakin' of saints,  
Prophets on the sidewalk beggin' for change,  
Old ladies laughing from the fire escape, cursing my name.  
I got a basket full of lemons and they all taste the same,  
A window and a pigeon with a broken wing,  
You can spend your whole life workin' for something  
Just to have it taken away," Brett Dennen.

Detective Michael Tritter smiled as he placed his hand over the bible, and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, "so help me God." The trial itself had come and gone, without much fuss. Witnesses were called, sworn in, questioned, and let go. The jury heard all the evidence, and disappeared into chambers for less than an hour. They came back with a guilty verdict and now we were sitting in another courtroom, at the sentencing hearing. House sat on the cold wooden bench, dressed in his best suit, and the red tie I gave him two months earlier. He didn't say a word to me when our eyes locked and I started to wonder what he might be thinking.

"Would you please tell the court, in your own words, what happened on the night in question?" the prosecuting attorney asked. Tritter nodded, still smiling, and I wondered what, if anything, people would do if I shot him right there.

"I went to Princeton Plainsborough Teaching Hospital's free clinic for a rash, and Dr. House was my attending physician. He was rude, and I spoke to him harshly. He laughed, turning to leave, without having preformed any tests. I tried to reason with Dr. House and when he tried to leave, I pulled his cane out from under him. He had this look in his eyes, a weakness, or fear maybe, and that was when I picked him. After I left the clinic I found Dr. House's parking space, so I would be able to recognize his car. I orchestrated a speed trap and pulled the good doctor over. He was driving without a license and was carrying a handful off loose pills, Vicodin I believe. As far as I could tell they were stolen. I told him this and arrested the good doctor, although I would have brought the guy in even if he didn't have anything on him. This was just icing on the cake. I brought him to the police station—for driving while intoxicated, speeding, driving without a licensee, and possession of a class 3 substance." Tritter was still smiling but House only sat there staring at his shoes.

"What happened when you arrived at the police station?"

"I booked Dr. House, voucher his personal belongings, and brought him into an interrogation room. I handcuffed him, and punched him hard in the diaphragm. He made no sound when he fell. Dr. House didn't speak once, not the whole evening. I beat the suspect for over an hour and then I told him he was going away for a very long time. I offered to—help him, although I had no intention of doing so. He still wasn't speaking, and didn't make a sound when I took off his clothing. He didn't even cry when I—_did him_." House was looking at me, desperate, like he wanted—needed—to leave, so I turned to our lawyer and asked if it was okay. Then I stood up and pushed House's wheelchair out of the courtroom and into the hall. Neither one of us needed to hear what Tritter had to say. A fellow officer had walked in on the cop after he had been alone with House for more than nine hours.

He was rushed to the hospital but it was already too late. Dr. Gregory house was gone, and the man who now lived inside his body was—wasn't even really a man. He was a shell of a person. He was broken, even worse than before. House was admitted to the emergency room with three cracked ribbed, and a fractured right clavicle. His right leg was broken in six places, and most of the fingers on his left hand were crushed, as if they had been stomped on repeatedly. He was covered in bruises and blood. Tritter had rapped him, twice—payback, I suppose, for the thermometer thing—and knocked one of his teeth out. They were able to set most of the broken bones, but he had to have a few surgical pins put in, in his leg, and hand.

After he got out of surgery they put him on a morphine drip, and gave him a boatload of sedatives, because he had been shaking, and he flinched whenever the nurses came near to check his BP and temperature. House lay there, sleeping, looking broken, beaten, swollen, black and blue and purple, and I just wanted to make him better. I wished I could make it all go away.

I sat next to him in his room all night and well into he next day. When he finally opened his eyes all House seemed capable of was sitting there, staring into space. Since then he almost never speaks—and when he does he never say s more than two or three words—can't make eye contact with anyone other than me, has nightmares almost every day, and suffers from severe anxiety and panic attacks. Sometimes he cries or screams, but mostly I've learned to live with the silence, and talk to myself.

He's learned to use his right hand to feed himself—not that he actually eats that much, maybe once a day at the most—but I do pretty much everything else for him now. I bathe, clothe, and put him to bed, stay with him during the day, hold him, talk to him, tell him that it's gonna be alright. I take care of him.

Tritter wouldn't admit to what he had done to House until after he was found guilty. He then also confessed to having beaten and raped four other women, and three other men. He got away with it in the other cases too. I guess nobody complained, and if they did they were all criminals, and he was a veteran cop.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I just keep on thinking that if I had only driven him home that night nothing would have happened. House would have been safe, and the bastard cop wouldn't have anything to go on. But I didn't drive him home. I said I was too busy, and stayed at the hospital until 11:00, and then went back to my hotel room. I keep telling myself that if I had called his apartment I would have found out he wasn't there, and maybe I could have found him in time. Maybe I could have rescued him.

They didn't even call me when he was brought into the hospital. I didn't find out until I got there for work, four hours later. I never once left his side for more than a minute after I found out though. I stayed with him, and held him, and talked to him. He didn't talk to me, or anyone, didn't look at me, didn't do anything. Finally someone suggested bringing in a shrink, and we had him evaluated.

"There doesn't seem to be any sign of brain damage," she said. "Everything seemed to be working fine, but the trauma, and stress of being brutalized, was too much for him to handle. He had to shut down to cope, and now he's reverted to an almost catatonic, child-like stage. Greg has gone back to the time when he last felt safe," two different psychologists told us. They both said it like that, using his first name like they were his best friend, and I wanted to punch the morons.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Even though it had been a few months his leg never healed well enough for him to be able to walk. Dr. Gregory House was going to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I knew he hated it, and did whatever else I could to make him as comfortable as possible. I got him a bunch of books and puzzle games (most of them were for one person although sometimes he played with me) and set him up on the couch most days to watch his soap and do anything he wanted.

Fifteen minutes after we left the courtroom, everybody else walked out through the doors. The lawyer came over and told me that there was an hour-long recess, for lunch. Then he turned and looked at House.

"You guys don't need to be here for this. He doesn't need to testify—not that he actually can—I can call you when we finish, tell you what's going on when they figure everything out."

"How long do you think he's going away for?" I asked, touching House's hand softly. "He's sort of freaked, but I think it might make him feel better to actually see some justice."

"The shrink who evaluated him before the trial said that Dr. House is basically brain dead, right? I don't think he even knows where he is right now." I'm still not sure if it was a response to what the lawyer said or now, but House pulled on my jacket then, and I took out the prescription bottle, took the lid off and handed him a couple pills, and the water bottle I now carried with me everywhere.

"You shouldn't talk about things you don't, can't understand. You stick to the law, and I'll take care of my paitent," I told the lawyer snottily. "Now if it's okay with you, we're going to have lunch…or is _that_ illegal now?" Ever since the attack I had been more and more angry and with more and more people. Suddenly, I started to understand why House used to call everybody stupid. He was right about everything. No wonder he was always so sad. "Hey Pal, what do you say, crappy cafeteria hamburgers, or crappy cafeteria chicken? No? Cookies? Pizza? Come on, Buddy. We talked about this," I pleaded, crouching so I could look him in the eyes. He just sat thee, staring beyond me at God only knows what. He smiled, and three seconds later I felt a hand gently touch my shoulder.

"How's he doing today?" Cuddy's voice was suddenly in my ear, and I bounced back up, shocked. At first I couldn't understand why or what she was doing there. Then I remembered the phone call from the night before. Cuddy called our place. She wanted to come with us to the courthouse. She had heard from someone, that today was the last day of the sentencing hearing, for moral support, but I said no. She came anyway, typical Cuddy. I stood there, staring at her, praying for House to say something about her breasts or ass. But, as usual he said nothing. He did stare, although whether it was down her blouse or into space, I couldn't tell.

"He's in a lot of pain, and being in the same room as that bastard cop is making him—he freaked out a little earlier, while Tri—while the cop was testifying, and we had to leave. I'm in here getting us some lunch. He doesn't seem to want anything, though. If you are really trying to be helpful could you just lean over and hug him—it might cheer him up a little."

"You want me to let House look down my shirt because he's throwing a temper tantrum?" She asked chuckling.

"What you think he's faking?"

"No, not faking, but there's no way he's completely—I mean what happened is horrible but he was pretty much normal before it happened. Plenty of people are assaulted and they don't end up like him."

"Plenty of people don't have a history like House's. His dad used to beat the shit out of him on a regular basis. And he, let's just say this isn't the first time Greg's gone through all of this."

"And he told you that?" She asked, looking down at him sadly. "Why did he tell _you_?"

"Because I was his friend, and I give him drugs. Plus we were sleeping together before he was—attacked. I think he trusted me. But if you don't think he's really that bad off, then just go ahead, take him off the Xanax and the pain meds too. He's probably faking the poorly healed six leg fractures and the smushed up fingers."

"You know that's not what I meant," she said pouting, hands on her hips. "He's a—he was—no wonder he hates his parents. You really think he's going to eat if I let him touch me?"

"Honestly, I don't think he's going to notice. It's really just a test to see how far gone he is. Fine, don't help. I'll just put a g-tube in his stomach and then we won't even have to worry about choosing food anymore." Cuddy caved under the guilt thing, like I knew she would and she hugged him. House looked up at me for half a second, and sort of smiled. Then, I saw his eyes drift downward momentarily, and then he looked away. "You wanna eat something, Buddy? How about a burger and some friends?" I asked, getting into the food line with him. "You in there somewhere, House?" I asked, placing two burgers, a large French fries, and a couple sodas on the tray, paid, and found us a table. "We don't have to go back into the courtroom unless you want to. Hey? These fries are really good. Jesus, I never thought I'd miss the days when you used to steal my lunch. Oh come on, I made that way to easy for you. Make fun of me, laugh, call me an idiot, say something anti-Semitic, anything!"

This wasn't the first time I'd begged him like that. Usually he didn't respond at all, and at first I thought this time wasn't going to be any different. Then House did something I wasn't expecting. He looked up from his food and said, "Jimmy," in a soft, sad, little voice. After almost a year of not speaking, not touching or being touched, and not even making eye contact, "Jimmy," seemed like a big breakthrough. He was exhausted—it was nearly 2:00 PM, and he had been up since 4:00 in the morning—and so I took him back to the apartment, and told him how proud I was. Later when we were sitting on the couch watching this morning's General Hospital, I smiled at him.

"I still can't believe Cuddy hugged you! Did you actually get to see anything or was her shirt buttoned all the way to the top? Look, I know you've had a long, hard—see I'm making it easy for you to make a joke here—day, but we really gotta find a way to communicate with each other. You could blink, or type it out on a computer or do fucking semaphore, but—sorry—frustrated. I'll be better as soon as the D.A. calls, I promise, but until then you're gonna have to bear with me." He just nodded, not taking his eyes off the TV screen. "You're not even listening to me are you?"

He shrugged.

"Do you know what I just said? I am so sorry House. This is all my fault."

Still nothing.

"You asked me for a ride home and I said I was too busy. I didn't even call to make sure you got home all right." This got his attention. House looked up at me, squirming. He whimpered, squeezed my hand, and put it over his heart. "You, love me? Is that what you're trying to—okay, I'm trying. I just don't really understand. Go slow for my sake, okay? You—no me, you're talking about me…my heart? I love—you're trying to tell me that you know that I love you? No? Yes? But you are in there, right?"

Nothing.

"Look you don't have to say anything. You don't even need to look at me. We aren't working right. We never have to go back to work. After what you've been through, I don't expect you to get better. but if you think you want to, we could go see somebody—a shrink…or not…Please, anything. I just need to know that you're not completely lost. Please mess with my head, I don't care, but I can't—if, are you all right? Sorry, stupid question, I didn't say that. House?"

But Greg didn't say anything. He just laid his head against my chest, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

I got a call the next morning, life without the possibility of parole, which was, at least, something. When I told him, he reacted the same as when I told him what I'd made for breakfast. I was starting to wonder if I would ever get my House back. I loved him, sick or healthy, scared or strong, okay or sick, but that didn't make me hate to see him this way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm gonna take care of you," I promised, a couple of weeks later, leaning down over the couch. House had a small red notebook he had in his hands, he had been writing in it every night for a month. One of the shrinks suggested he keep a journal, although most days he didn't write anything in it, and when he did it was usually just a couple of words, phrases. _His hands still hurt me even now. Bad smell. Hate me. STOP. _I felt guilty for reading his private thoughts, but they made me hopeful. I thought that maybe if he kept writing he might work his way to full sentences, complete thoughts, and maybe then he would be able to talk to me, maybe get better—even if he only got a little bit better I thought it would be a miracle.

Today it was open to an empty page. House's fingers gripped the pen awkwardly, and moved slowly, as he wrote.

_Wilson. _

"Yeah? I'm here. I'm here, and I've got you, ohh-oh-okay," I was trying to calm him down, because as soon as I sat down he wrapped his arms around me, pressing his face into my shirt. "It's okay. What did you wanna tell me?" Nothing. Then I realized I was still hugging his body too closely for him to be able to write. When I loosened my grip he sat up, taking the paper in his hand, writing again.

He added the words _not bad_ to the end of my name. _Wilson not bad_. I had no idea what that meant, and told him so. House looked up at me, angry and frustrated. _Didn't hurt me_. _Not your fault_.

"How long have you been able to—are you…can you talk to me? Do you think you might be okay to…can you look at me. It's okay now. You'll be safe here. I'm gonna protect you, not gonna let anybody hurt you, ever."

_I know_. I hugged him again, kissing the top of his hair, and when he turned his face up to meet mine, I saw a look in his eyes I hadn't seen for almost a year. _Help me_.

"Okay, how do you want me to, I mean, uh—what do you wanna, do you wanna start going to see the doctor, the shrink, and maybe you could talk to her about what happened. She might know—I don't know what the right things to tell you are. I don't know what you need to hear, and a psychiatrist will."

_You_,he wrote, underlined it, and circled it. Then he wrote, _me_, and crossed it out with thick black lines.

"No," I said, almost too harshly. "Sorry, House." Then I took the pen from his hand and wrote down, _us_ and put a heart around it, handing him the paper and pen. "I'm gonna take care of you, make you better, help you. _We're_ gonna be okay, I promise. You're not—you're going to be okay. As long as I'm alive I will never leave you, unless you want me to, never. I will always be here."

_Okay_. And then he did something I never expected. _Sorry_, House wrote, and put his hands on mine.

"It's okay," I whispered. "This wasn't your fault, it was never your fault. Tri—he was a bad cop. He hurt you because he wanted to. There's nothing you could have done to stop it, and nothing you did made you deserve it. It's gonna be all right," I promised. House looked up at me doubtfully. "I swear. I swear to God." He shook his head. "I still believe. You can mock me all you want, but—I promise I will a way to make this better, to help you. You believe me, right? House?"

To Be Continued?


	2. Good Day

Chapter Two: good days

I know the House talking/ not talking thing is sort of confusing so I put all of what Wilson thinks he might say in italics and if House is actually talking, it's written normally.

"I never jumped in and rescued you,  
But I wanted to  
I didn't tell you which way to go,  
cause I thought you'd know," The Barenaked Ladies

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

On nights like this when House fell asleep on the couch, I hated having to take care of him more than I hated the cop for making him into a pathetic, weak, and terrified child. I hated having to wake him up, drag his body to the bedroom, and give him his nighttime pills all so h could go back to sleep, but I knew we couldn't spend the night on the couch. BT (before Tritter) I think he slept on his living room sofa on a regular basis, or at least passed out there, but now being here doubled up and bent over on lumpy, hard pillows caused his bones and muscles to cramp up, curve into awkward positions, stiffen, and when he woke up in the morning his pain would be a hundred times worse and for two or three days he'd be pulling on my shirt, his eyes begging me for extra pills every hour.

Even though I no longer saw patients I still wrote his prescriptions and took care of House when he got sick (he'd had two minor infections, the stomach flu, and a couple of serious colds) and watched over him, doing everything I could to minimize the amount of pain he was in, tried to decrease his anxiety, nervousness, panic attacks, and while he looked so peaceful and sweet laying there, sleeping on the couch just was not an option at the time.

"Hey, I know you're probably exhausted, but if we sleep on the sofa we're both gonna wake up with stiff necks and aching knees. There we go." House glared at me, while I pulled the chair up to his side. "I get it, you resent having to use that thing, not being able to do stuff yourself, but there's nothing I can do. If I could, I'd give you my legs, but they might look kind of silly." He sat up slowly, and pushed the wheelchair away with his good hand. "You can't walk. It would be excruciating, and if you fall I'd have to take you to the hospital to get x-rays, because I can't read your mind, not yet anyway.

Then he pushed me, pushed up against me actually, trying to support himself, and stand up. I wasn't sure if I should let him try and fail, help him get across the room, or push his body down into the chair, forcing him to not even try. While I knew it would help him to feel strong, useful, make him feel like he was capable of doing something I didn't want to let him do something that would do irreparable harm to his leg. If he crossed the room successfully I could give him a few extra pills, but if he fell, the fragile bones would almost certainly snap, making it even less likely for him to ever fully heal. "Let me help," I offered, "and if you need to stop, tell me, and I'll find a way to help. Now I know—this is really going to hurt. Do you really want to do this?"

House stood on wobbly legs, leaning up against me, and wrapped one arm around my shoulder. The instant he started to put weight on his right foot he looked like he might scream, his eyes wide open, teeth clenched. His nostrils flared open and I could almost hear his strained breath, and yet he did not stop. He didn't even ask me to stop didn't ask for pills. Every step seemed agonizing, like his leg was still broken, sharp bones rubbing and sticking into the sensitive nerves, but he didn't stop. It took us nearly an hour to hobble the twenty feet from the couch to the bed.

As I laid him down House almost seemed to be screaming, silently, and when I gave him his bedtime medicine (plus two extra painkillers) he popped them in his mouth and chewed, swallowing the dust, and draining the entire glass of water. His armpits, face, chest and hair were slick with salty tears and sweat. I gave him time so the pills could take effect, rolled the chair into the bedroom, got more water, and picked up the red journal. I'm not proud of what I did next, but I opened the book to that day's entry—the most recent block of text.

_Don't be scared, don't be scared, idiot, i can do this, don't be scared, never was normal but now I don't know, pain still not better, DON"T BE SCARED, Wilson doesn't think the same as them, he still sees me don't be scared try for him._ There was more but my eyes were burning with my own tears, a huge lump in my throat. I closed the book and brought it with me to the bedroom, wiping my face to make sure he wouldn't know I had been crying.

"Do you want me to help put your PJs on?" I somehow managed to ask, handing him the journal. House didn't need to nod; his eyes told me that the long walk from the living room had left him without an ounce of physical strengh. "Should I get a wash cloth? You know, sponge bath? No? Okay." I helped him change clothes and sat at his side—he slept better with me close by—promising myself that this time I'd stay awake all night, keep the nightmares away, but knowing that I wouldn't be any good to him sleep deprived or sick. "Time to sleep now," I whispered, trying to twist myself so as not to make let my body touch his in a dangerous way.

One morning, about a month after he was released from the hospital, I woke up to discover House, half sobbing/ half screaming into his pillow, his entire body quivering. At first I couldn't understand his behavior. That was when I realized what I had done, how my body had unintentionally poked him. He must have thought I was a monster, even if I was unconscious. It took a double dose of Xanax to get him calm again and for weeks, he cried if I came near. Now I made sure it would never happen again, or at least I tried. I learned to sleep sitting up, with my arms laid over his body, and he'd lay in-between the makeshift hug. This time he tried to pull me close, pressing up against me, curling on his left side as he often did, his eyes turned downward. "I don't think this is a good idea," I tried to tell him. House grabbed my wrist with the fingers of his right hand, pulling my arm round him, pulling me onto my side. When I tried to stop him. He clamped down on my wrist, tightly. "Don't do that, it hurts. I'll lay here if you want, but please try and be more gentle."

He rolled his eyes, but loosened his grip. "You are suffering from severe anxiety and post traumatic stress disorder. You were raped, and I can't guarantee that I'm not going to wake up with an—" House put his palm up over my mouth, a gesture I recognized as him trying to tell me to shut up. "What happens to you if I—you know?" He shrugged. "I'm gonna put a pillow right here, behind you, okay?" A nod. We were lying face to face now, and I could see how tired he was, but decided to ask one last question anyway. "I saw what you wrote for today—in your notebook—I know, you're mad at me because I read you're private journal. Get over it. I need to be sure you're not plotting to swallow a fist full of meds or something. You wrote, "don't be scared," about a dozen times. Was that, are you trying to control your fear or did you know I was reading it?"

He nodded, and then shook his head. "Yes you're trying to—" he nodded, put his hand over my mouth and closed his eyes. I gently peeled his fingers away. "Everyone gets scared sometimes. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Right now it might seem like you're scared all the time, but you are doing so much better. You don't need to beat yourself up over this." House nodded, but didn't open his eyes. "You can go back to sleep now, if you want. It's okay, I won't leave. I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight, not ever. I'm here now. I know you don't blame me, and I know I shouldn't, but this—I should have given you a ride that night. It's all my fault."

"No," House shouted, looking at me angrily. I knew instantly that this was in response to my feeling guilty, wishing I had been there, and not to the whole, I'm here and I won't ever go away thing.

These conversations, the saying "I'm sorry and I love you and it's okay," for hours, drinking a pot of coffee a day so I could be awake and aware for him all the time, him sitting there occasionally looking right at me, answering questions with nods, or a shrub, or a shake of his head, every so often saying, "don't," or "making pitiful sounds when he wants an extra pill, this was my life now, and the whole thing was strange, but also funny. As much as I worry about House, feel guilty and as much as it hurts me to see him in so much pain, scared all the time, I'm actually happy now. Greg needs me for basically everything. I have a purpose now, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I exist for a reason. God, I'm way more fucked up than House, and yet if I weren't, he would have ended up in an institution, or dead, or both.

He needs me to take care of him and I need him to need me. Some how our screwed unless worked really well together. We fit each other. I love him and he loves my love, and (even though he's all but incapable of love) he loves me back. He needs someone who will love him uncontrollably and not care that he's a screwed up, beaten down, survivor who takes way too much Vicodin and AT (After Tritter) Xanax. If only that fucking cop hadn't come along we both could have been really happy.

We're still perfect for each other. After House fell asleep I'd put two pills in a paper cup on the bedside table, with a glass of water, because he always woke up in the middle of the night, needing another dose now, and I liked to have everything all set up and ready to go when he needed it. I'd convinced myself I could make his life manageable; make him feel safer, happy, if I was organized enough. If I could get a real, perfect schedule then he would get better, but part of me knew it would never ever happen. House lay in my arms sleeping, and I lay there just watching until I knew he was fully asleep, and he seemed safe. Then I slept too or half slept, keeping myself somewhat conscious because I knew Greg would never wake me up no matter how bad it got. That night I hardly slept because it was the first time I'd laid in bed with him since our own little incident and I was horribly terrified of hurting him. I woke up, several hours later, his eyes transfixed on my face, staring at me.

"You okay, Buddy?" I asked, sitting up, reaching for his pills." A nod, _yes_, "You're staring at me," I said, with a little smile. Another nod. "Sorry, I tend to state the obvious in stupid ways when I first wake up."

"I," he struggled, the words coming out, slow, and difficultly. "I want," House stopped, rubbing the sore fingers on his left hand. "Can I, have my," he croaked, biting down on his lower lip slightly. Seeing him struggling and suffering so much made me wish I were a mind reader. "Pills" this was the first time I'd looked at the clock since waking up. Five hours had passed since he had first fallen asleep. I nodded, handing him the mess and then his water glass. He looked back at me, staring again.

"When I said earlier that I need to figure out away to communicate, I didn't mean you have to force yourself to speak. It's not—you want to talk to me, don't you?" House responded by shrugging, and rubbing his bad leg. "Do you wanna talk to me or not?" When he shook his head I knew it was a lie. "How long have you been up, waiting for your—how long have you been up?" It took me nearly a full minute to realize he was answering me and not hitting me. "Sorry I lost count—start again?" _One, two, three, four, five, six_. "Six?" A nod. "Six minute?" _No_. "Six—six, six times around the clock? No that would be stupid, oh six places, thirty minutes right?" Finally he nodded. "Next time you can wake me, you know?"

He shook his head, pointed to me and then put his hands under his face, and shook his head again. "_No, Jimmy, you don't sleep enough as is. I'm not gonna add to that anymore than I already have_," I could almost hear his voice saying in my ear, and yet he didn't actually do it.

"IF I had been driving, even if the cop had been smart enough to find my car, he wouldn't have been able to even ask you for your license, let alone search you, or arrest you."

"_Or he would have said I looked high, and asked if he could search your car for drugs_," the BT House would have said. "_He was gonna find a way to get me no matter what, maybe he would even hurt you to get to me_," he didn't say it, but I knew this was somewhat close to what he was thinking.

"I never told you this before, because I knew you'd make fun of me, but I keep a can of pepper spray in my glove compartment." For a moment he just stared at me, then a small smile spread over his face and he laughed a little. "I mean this, House, I will do whatever it takes to protect you."

House nodded, "_I know, Jimmy_," he would have told me if he could have said anything. Unfortunately it wasn't enough. "You," the world broke through the silence of our bedroom awkwardly, "do a good job with me." It wasn't so much that he didn't know the words, or couldn't string them together, but instead he had been keeping himself in full shut down mode for so long that starting up again was like learning how to do it all over again. I also think he was scared, as always.

"You're doing a really good job too, House." He let me hug him, and hold him, a familiar smug smile (the one I hadn't seen in over a year) spread across his face. Then he fell asleep, again. Feeling like we had turned a corner, I went back k to bed and dreamed that Cuddy called to say she had a really big case and needed our help. SO I used a magic pill to bright House back but, unfortunately, the cure only lasted for twenty-four hours. When I woke up he was staring again, mouthing words I could not make out. "You need something, Buddy?"

_No._

"I can't hear you, what are you—no—you're not talking to me? Oh, sorry. What do you want for breakfast?" I asked, with no real expectation of an answer. Being on a specific daily schedule (even eating the same things every week) seemed to help 1. Give him some control over his life and 2. Feel a sense that everything was normal, so he knew what was going on, whereas before I started the routines, not knowing what would happen next made him even more stressed out. House asked for his meds less often when he knew that things were happening the way they were supposed to. So I didn't expect for him to respond and when he tossed the journal (also kept on the bedside table) at me, it came a bit of a shock.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have read your private journal and I won't do it again," I said like a blathering idiot. House gave me the 'you're such an idiot,' look. "You wrote something in here and you _want_ me to read it?" _ Yes_. If he knew there was a sign for duh, he would have used it.

He had written _Tuesday Pancake Day_,_ but if you ask, pancakes_. I smiled, and handed the notebook back to him. He nodded and didn't roll his eyes or give me any dirty looks as I helped him into the wheelchair and pushed him into the kitchen. I got started on breakfast, only to hear a soft thump, turned around and discovered that he had started throwing things to get my attention.

"Okay, new rule, don't throw things at me. If you need to talk to me, you can yell, scream, grab my hand or arm, or anything else, but you can not just throw things around inside the apartment, um, please."

_You kinda folded at the end there didn't you, Jimmy? _He taunted with his eyes, but didn't actually say something. His gaze met mine and then shifted downward. _Pick up the goddamn notebook. _I looked inside but he hadn't written anything.

"You want this back?" A shrug. "Just don't break anything, okay? I know, I'm pathetic! What the hell do you want from me?" I asked, starting to get frustrated, hating myself for yelling at him. "Sorry, I'm so sorry, Pal, my bad. I, this is hard for me too." House was silent, while I made breakfast, and quiet quietly we ate, and quiet again when we were watching his soap. For a while I thought he was mad or scared of me, but then about midway through General Hospital he tugged on my sleeve, and then reached to stroke my face. "You don't have to do that—I mean it's okay if you want to, but it's not—how's the other hand coming?" He let go of my cheek, and held out the other palm to be inspected. "Let me know if this hurts, alright?" I reminded him, and then started to examine his fingers, rolling my thumb over the joints, the bones, and his pale skin. "You're doing really good, Buddy. I'm almost finished. I know, I know it hurts. Almost finished. You are so brave. There we go, all done. It looks like it's doing better but I think we're still having problems.

"What we?" He snorted, pulling away. It wasn't as if he didn't have any physical therapy, but his hand, like the leg, had become more tender, sensitive, stiff and weak. There was only so much medical science could do, and unfortunately we were bumping up against those limits. The human body isn't designed to be stomped on and then re-built. He wanted to tell me that when it comes to pain there is never a we sort of thing. He was alone. There was no way for me to help. Nothing I could do to help.

"You want an extra pill, because I hurt you so much?" No? You're doing so great, being so brave and I'm extremely proud of this talking thing. It's okay. Don't worry about it. This _is_ a we thing, and we have all the time in the world to get this figured out."

"Fuck time," he shouted, slamming his good hand against the couch, in a tight fist. "Doesn't help. Never helps." My plan evaporated at this point. House wanted to get well more than anything, but if his past experiences with his father molesting and beating him had taught the poor guy anything it was that you never really get over this sort of thing. Some people heal—to varying degrees—but we both knew the days of him calling up hookers, playing poker with random strangers, and laughing at Cuddy were over. No more jokes about sleeping with employees, no more lying, no more sex—probably. He would never steal my lunch, never spit food at me, or put my hand in a warm cup of water while I slept. Never again—not always such a good thing after all.

"It's not better, not even a little bit?" I asked, lifting his hand again, kissing it softly. "Not at all, since the—since you got out of the hospital?" _Ehh, so-so_, he said with the shaking of his hand. "Does this help, or am I hurting, or scaring you?" _No_. "Is it really so hard to talk to me? You were just doing it, like thirty seconds ago."

"Fuck you!" The words came out in a quick, sharp burst of pure anger. I wanted to keep pushing him, but knew the risks. If I went even the tiniest bit too far, I'd never get the old House back.

"I deserved that, and a whole lot worse. I know I screw up a lot, but I love you and I am willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy, to make you feel better, okay? I know you're having a hard time with your hand today, but how's the leg?"

"Hurts," he mumbled, and then, "wh-what if. What if I can't?" I wanted to say, of course you're gonna get better, promise to make him truly happy, promise to fix him but I knew better. We both knew he was never gonna walk again, never more than a little bit around the apartment with someone holding him up, supporting him. And with only one hand working, he couldn't even operate a manual wheelchair.

"I know it hurts. There's permanent damage and it's probably gonna hurt for the rest of your life. That's not what I meant. How bad is the pain today compared to other times?"

"'Bout usual," he said, and pressed his hand over my mouth.

"If I talk, but don't expect you to respond is it okay?" There was no response from House. He didn't even look in my direction for—three or four hours—a really long time. The rest of the day he was aware of me and his surroundings, but tired and unresponsive. He did write a few things in the journal and nodded or shook his head a few times. This was a good day. God help me it was one of the best we'd had so far. So you can see why his bad days were so difficult for the two of us.


	3. Bad Day

Author's notes: statements, phrases in italics are the same as last chapter, and then there are large paragraphs done the same way. The first section written entirely in italics is a flashback, and the second section is House's journal entry, in case you can't tell.

"I wish I could fly, I know I can save us somehow.  
You thought you were safe and sound but you need a hero now.  
You gotta believe even with broken wings,  
I've come to your rescue and you can't rescue me," American Hi-Fi

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

On good days I usually (although not always) woke up before House, and he would be able to sleep later than usual. He seemed fairly relaxed, in less pain, got frustrated, angry, scared, and sick a lot less often when his mood was up, but on bad days, he was in Hell. I can only imagine how a guy like Greg could trapped in the darkness of his mind constantly being tortured, unable to ask for help, unable to know where to even begin looking for a key, or door. On bad days I open my eyes and see him lying there, staring at the ceiling, trying his best not to make a sound. I climbed out of bed this morning, without touching him—on good and okay days I always hug him before doing anything else—because, on mornings like this, even I make him flinch.

"Here we go, morning medications," I said, as sweetly as possible, handing them over. He looked at me, examining my face, and eventually taking the pills, because I told him to. "Do you want breakfast in bed, or are we ready to go?" I asked, with no expectation of an answer. He didn't even look at me. "We're gonna get you into the wheelchair, but you don't have to change out of your pajamas right now, okay? Listen, Buddy, I want you to feel safe with me, but if you don't, feel free to—you can tell me, or grab me, or cry, or yell, or do whatever you feel will help. And if I hurt you, accidentally, scream as loud as you can." I wasn't expecting a battle, not on bad days anyway. He hardly even fought me anymore, and on days like these, I considered it a good sign if he could go most of the morning without making "the face." The empty-eyed, blank stare that causes me to think I'll never see the real him again.

I got him into the chair and then to the kitchen without much trouble—and the only problem I did have was the one I always do. The problem is with me, a pathetic, skinny guy who was never good at sports, trying to lift, support, and carry a guy who's nearly twice my size around. Luckily it was Wednesday, which meant we were having cereal, which meant that even if he ate with his fingers, and made a huge mess, it would still be fairly easy to clean up.

"So, what's it gonna be, Lucky Charms, or bran flakes?" I asked, and as usual, I wondered whether he appreciated my attempts to keep conversations up, or if I was just another annoyance. "That was a joke—see 'cuz only old people eat bran—and you're not—here you go. Do you need me to blow on it? See I was—again, joking, 'cuz cereal's not hot, I'm dyin' out here man, can't I get a laugh, out of pity? Nothing. All morning he was quiet, and I only managed to get him to take a few spoonfuls before he gave up. "Would you like something else?"

House did respond to this, but not in any way I would have liked. He just gave me the "what do you want from me?" look, and I knew he would think I was mad no matter what I said.

"I'm not gonna ever let anybody hurt you, ever again. You don't have to worry, if it makes any difference at all…so, it's time for your show," I announced, and started to wheel him towards the den. Once there, I switched on the TV, put him next to the couch, and then sat at his side, but none of this seemed to matter. He didn't care about the TV, didn't watch it, didn't look at it, or anything in particular. I didn't talk during the program, half out of respect, but also because I knew it wouldn't make any difference.

More than anything, I wanted to lie on the couch and hold him, find a way to make him okay again. I wanted to hug and kiss the sweet guy, touch his hair, rock with him, and give him his old life back. On bad days I tried not to touch him, and when I had no choice, I explained everything, warned him, told him it was okay to be scared, and asked him to scream if I did anything he didn't like. He never did this, of course, but I felt better having said it. Whenever things were at their worst, we sat in the living room, and he made these soft, sweet, pathetic, little whimpering sounds, but never actually cried, and today—after all the good breakthroughs we'd had in the last few days—I was going to see if I could get him to do what he had never been able to do.

He wasn't watching General Hospital, but looked at me, angrily, when I turned the TV off all the same. Afterwards he turned away, and started to make the sounds again, which were extremely difficult for me to hear.

"You have been through an incredible ordeal, but at the same time, I can't help feeling like you might not really be, House are you listening to me? I can't help but think that you haven't really dealt with this, which is fine, there are no time lines on getting better from stuff like this, but I'm pretty sure you haven't even started. I don't think I've ever even seen or heard you cry. It's gotta be Hell, but you're still in the exact, same place, and it will never get better if you don't make this real, if you don't deal with it."

He still didn't talk, didn't acknowledge me, except to nod. "Hmph," his voice seemed to be saying. "_Like you can help me. Like anybody could._" House seemed like he was about to start to cry if I pushed him harder and for a moment there I almost didn't do it.

I told myself what all the shrinks had said, "best case scenario, he comes out of this thing, after years of intense, painful, hard work, but even then he'll never be himself again." I couldn't do that to him. I refused to hurt him like that. At least, I told myself I as much.

"You were raped, brutalized, and your physical body can't heal itself from what was done to you. He stomped on your hand so many times that the bones were practically turned to dust. And your leg's worse than ever. Never gonna walk again. I am gonna get you one of those motorized chairs, I will. I'm working on it, but you haven't been—it's never going to be the same, House.

"If you'd had a normal childhood, or a happy one, things wouldn't be so bad. Dr. Wilcox told me that once something like what your dad did happens to somebody, they're like two or three times as likely to be attacked again. You could have been the nicest, most respectful, sweetest doctor in the world. Even if you had _never_ taken drugs in your life, he would have seen it in your eyes and he would have taken you all the same. The cop saw right through you, saw what your dad did, and he raped you and he beat you because he knew you'd never fight back, and never tell."

When House lifted his head I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, his chest moving up and down rapidly. "Is sit okay if I—" He practically jumped into my arms before I could even finish my sentence, and for an hour, we just lay there, both of us sobbing. When it was over, there didn't seem to be a single thing left inside of him. Hell, there wasn't much left on the outside. "I'm sorry. I hurt you, right there, but can you see why I did—oh—okay we're not done crying. That's okay. I gotcha, Buddy, I gotcha." Even through the emptiness he seemed to have calmed down a little, like as much as it had hurt to get here, it had been helpful.

I didn't expect him to sit up and smile, say, "Jimmy that has got to be the stupidest thing you have ever done," (House's code for "thanks") but it still disappointed me to see absolutely no change in him throughout the rest of the day. He went to sleep easily enough that nihgt, clinging to me like I was some sort of giant teddy bear, or security blanket, but I had a feeling it was more because I happened to be there than out of any sort of love or trust.

The next two days were fairly normal. On Friday, we both woke up around the same time, and while Greg didn't actually say anything all day, he was more aware of his surroundings, and made a few attempts to communicate (clanking his fork against his plate when he wanted a second burger at lunchtime, tugging on my sleeve to get my attention, and he fought with me at bedtime, pointing to the digital clock, looking up at me, as if to say, "I'm not a little kid. I don't need a bed time!"

So I let him stay up an extra hour, which actually turned out to be a good idea. Once I got us into bed, and gave him the pills, he was already half asleep. Friday night, he lay on his side, half curled up for a minute and just before he fell asleep I could have sworn I saw him smile, even if it was only for an instant.

Saturdays we tried to sleep in, and watched movies and ate popcorn on the couch until the late afternoon. I was expecting to get up, hopefully before he did, around 7:00 or 8:00, but I overslept and around 9:00 I woke up because somebody, House, was shaking me.

"You alright, Big guy?" I asked, sleepily. He nodded, looking me straight in the eyes. "You want your pills, is that why you're shaking me?" I didn't wait for him to respond before handing over the meds, and he didn't answer. "I think this is gonna be a good day," I said. _Nothing. _He did, however, help me as I put him into the wheelchair, and even tried to move by himself, but had to stop almost instantly, probably because of the pain.

"Fuck!" he screamed, in frustration, then let me push the rest o the way. He was quiet afterwards, almost like before, but now he was responsive, and when I asked how he wanted his eggs, I got a headshake out of the guy. He didn't want eggs. Before I could ask, _well what do you want_, he told me. "Doughnuts," he said. So I got us some, set up the table, and put a few on each of our plates. "It's okay?" he asked, his eyes avoiding mine, nervously, maybe even out of fear.

"Of course. If you want doughnuts, you get them. That's how it works now. Your father, the cop, Cuddy, none of them will be able to control you, tell you want you can, or cant do. And the only time I'll say no to you is if you wanna do something that could hurt or kill you. Otherwise, the world is all yours," I promised. I don't know if he was scared or he didn't believe me, but he kept looking up at me, and then away.

"Don't tell," he pleaded.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"My dad had this thing, about, when it came to whether or not I'd get fed," House told once, years ago. "Good boys who don't make trouble get their rations, but otherwise…"

"_And your mother was okay with this?" I'd ask. He shook his head. "He mistreated her too?"_

"_No…well, he sometimes, might have—I think he did it once or twice, but she didn't get it half as bad as me, or anywhere near as often, but she was a grown up, and could control herself a lot more, a lot better than I could. Plus I was more clumsy. I spilled a glass of mil one night, on accident. I had to wear long sleeves and sit on a pillow for two weeks. I only got to eat lunch at school—no breakfast no dinner—for a week and a half after that."_

"_He beat you to shit for spilling milk? Over spilled milk?" I'd said, sounding shocked, feeling shocked. House's dad was an ass. I'd always known as much, but this was too much for even me to comprehend._

"_I didn't appreciate what I was given, which meant I didn't deserve it, possibly even that I didn't want it. I had no respect for my father, his work, the money he'd spent to get the food, how hard he'd worked for the money, how hard my mom worked to cook it. He always had a reason, logic. I think he even had a reason for fucking with me on Christmas Eve. Keep me from making a fuss when I didn't get what I asked for; keep me from getting up before I was supposed to…maybe something I couldn't figure out. Maybe he was trying to teach me how good I had it, when he wasn't, you know, or teach me that I was the bad, evil, little shit he'd always suspected me of being. It's all about control with him." There was noting I could say to him that day, nothing to do._

_ xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

"I won't tell your—I won't tell, ever. You can stay here, with me, and I'll feed you, take care of you, and never let anybody hit or touch you again. I'm here and I will always protect you," I said. House opened his eyes wide, and whimpered softly. I could tell he didn't completely believe it. "Cross my heart, swear on the bible, whatever it takes, I promise."

"You're really gonna keep him away from me?" he asked, sounding more like a child than usual. I said I would, and he finally trusted my answer. "What about the other one? You can stop him too?" I swore to do so, but he didn't completely believe that one. "How?"

"He's in prison, Greg, forever and ever. Life, without the possibility of parole. He's never going to hurt anybody again. Tr—the cop is probably getting the crap beaten out of him in jail right now, not that it's gonna help you if he is…"

"I hope he gets—I hope," House couldn't say what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Then he picked the doughnut up, sort of tore a couple pieces off and played with them, but still didn't eat.

"Does your tummy hurt?" _No_. "But you aren't hungry?" _Yes. _"We could start the movie, and then get a snack later, when you feel like eating?" He nodded, _yes_. "Is the pain worse today? Is that what this—no? Okay, sorry. Do you want me to stop asking stupid questions?" _No_. "So something is bothering you?" _Yes_. "I don't suppose you could just tell me, so I don't have to keep on making stupid guesses?"

House gave me the "I can't believe you're such a fucking idiot," look, but I still wasn't getting his message.

"I will figure this out. It must have happened between last night and this morning or you would have let me know before now." He nodded, and kept nodding, _yes!_

"You're getting warm, Wilson. Now just put two and two together, and you won't look like a complete idiot." His eyes stared directly into mine, desperately, like he was screaming for my help.

"You had a nightmare, didn't you?" Big nod. "About Tr—about the cop?" _No_. "Oh boy…sorry! It's not you. You didn't—you didn't do anything wrong here, or back then for that matter. It was about your dad, right?" House sighed, both glad to know that I would help him, and ashamed of needing it. "Can you tell me about it?" As if he had been expecting this, Greg removed the red journal from the little bag on the side of his chair, opened it to the newest entrance and handed it to me.

Running, gotta get away, he's after me. Trip fall hurt. Grabs me. Dragged away, screaming heart pounding in throat. So scared always scared. Pain is all in me now. He's doing the thing. Hurting me, hurting me! Can't move. Just cry. Says, "my special little guy." Says it a lot. 

"It's alright," I whispered, taking him to the den, and holding him on the couch. "It's over now. It's all over. I know that it won't help when you're in the nightmare, but dreams can't actually hurt you, and I'm being a complete idiot, aren't I?"

House sort of shrugged, and waved his hand a little, so-so. "_Not a complete idiot, not as bad as everyone else, in the world, at least_," he should have added, but, of course, did not. He did, however, say something. "YouprotectmeJimmy," he told me, the words running together into one long jumbled phrase.

"Well of course I'll protect me," then he cut me off, something House hadn't actually done in—forever. I'd been interrupted by him, a few times, in mid sentence, but usually it wasn't because he disagreed, or thought what he had to say too important to wait, but out of pain, or fear, or both.

"Wasn'tfinishedmoron," he exclaimed, grumpily. I was so happy to see him acting like himself I would have, gladly, agreed to let him call me every dirty, horrible name he could think of. Compared to the silence, moron was music to my ears. "YouprotectmeJimmy anditmakesmefeelawholelotsafertoknowthat, thanifiwasalone orinsomenuthouse."

"I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever let anybody put you in one of those places. You're not nuts, and—don't make that face, you aren't. Sure you've got problems, but who doesn't?"

"Yeahbutmostpeoplejustspendwaytoomuchoncreditcards. I'mawholelotmorescrewdupthanthat. Whathappenedtome…" he paused, trying to come up with the words to adequately describe what had been done to him, twice. "It'snotthesame."

"I recognize that this is extremely difficult for you, but I think you might be more comfortable trying to speak if you slow down, a little bit, or you could just keep doing what you're doing, if it seems to be working right now."

"I. Bet. You'd. Let. Me. Do just. About. Anything. "Cuz of what. He did. "Cuz of what they. Both did," House said, stopping to gather himself after every couple of words, trying to make sure it came out exactly as he was thinking it. "You're pathetic."

"Do you know how long you've been out of it? I mean, uh, do you know how long ago the—attack—House you've been practically catatonic for over a year. Did you have any idea how much time had passed?"

"I'm not—all me yet. Been fighting to push myself out from the—scared—ness? Two weeks, almost I think. Missing time. I lost days…whole days. Just gone. Like that. Just whoosh."

"You had a couple of really bad days there for a while. Monday you—we—went to the courthouse for the end of the sentencing hearing and the cop—testified. That freaked you out so we came home, and then Tuesday you were in an out. Wednesday you were a wreck and I'm pretty sure I made it worse. Yesterday and the day before it was a little below normal but today's the first time you've eve really spoken to me." When House started to squirm I thought he was trying to get away, but I almost instantly realized that it was an attempt to snuggle.

"I was missing Wednesday, Thursday, most of yesterday. I dunno where I go when I lose, I hate that!" he explained, desperately. "Fade away, sometimes. I—float off, and just sort of disappear."

"From the meds?" I ask but got a headshake in response. "Because you get so scared you can't—deal with—things?" At least this time he nodded, although maybe it wasn't such a good thing. "Can I help with the with that in anyway?" _No_. "Nothing at all? There's nothing I can do?" Another no. "Is there anything anyone can do?" _Nope_. "I love you, doesn't that do anything? Doesn't it mean?"

"Sure, when I know you're there. But when I'm—I don't know anything, but that's not it, not everything, not the right—thing. I can't think always. He _took_ that from me." House whimpered, pressing his face into my chest, and sobbing for about half a second. "I hate this."

"But you're doing so great, Greg."

"Bullshit!" he shouted, a look of absolute pain and anguish on his face. "You said it before. I'm—afuckingcomacpaitent." This time he didn't cry, but instead made an almost infantile sound. "Why me?" he asked, and before I could come up with anything added, "haven'tIbeenthrough enough?"

"If everybody got hit with an equal amount of shit, then the universe would have let you go after dad was finished—mol—with the…it would have let things stop when you were about ten or so." He nodded, as if to say, yeah it should have. "I know it might seem better not to think of all this stuff as just random crap that happened to you, but if it is a conspiracy, or punishment, then it's like you're saying you've done something to deserve all of this—and that's just not true." Another nod, and a long sigh. _ I know, but…_

"Am I ever gonna be okay?" House asked, staring at me as though I somehow had all the answers.


	4. TV Show

Bad Cop chapter four:

"I wish I, could come home

To a life that looks like a TV show

I wish I, could see,

My television family waiting for me

Where no one fights

And no one screams

No one lies, and no one leaves," Everclear

I wanted to lie to him then, promise that everything was going to be okay. I wanted to say, "You'll be back to your old self in no time," make sure he heard it, and tell him he'd forget all this bad stuff one day, and then have a normal, happy life. I wanted to tell him all this and more, but I couldn't. First off, if I lied, he'd know it and get mad, maybe never be able to trust me again.

At this point I almost wanted him to make a smart as comment, because at least then I'd feel like I was getting my favorite, wonderfully, amazing, brilliant guy back, but he didn't do that.

"So that's a no?" House asked, almost like he needed to verify the truth by hearing me say it too. Getting to this did make him cry a little but Greg stopped as soon as he caught himself. "Not sure there's a point, if I can't be—okay. Imean, why try?"

"I can, we can work on different combinations of pain meds and anti-anxiety pills, and you might—could—can find the right dosage, and that will make all the difference, You probably won't—"

"You don't know!" he shouted, pounding his fist into my shoulder. "This isn't the—this is so bad. I can't think, talk, can't do, anything." He screamed, and I knew from experience that he was only moments away from falling apart, sobbing hysterically. Only, this time there was absolutely no chance of it helping. This crying wasn't going to make him get better. If anything this would make him worse.

I carefully took his face in my hands, turned it up so I could kiss his forehead, and then hugged, held him. House was biting his lip, refusing to let himself cry. He just lay there, and then after a while, starting to grind against me. I couldn't figure out why he was doing it right away, but then I realized that he was trying to provoke a response from me, trying to make me do something to hurt him.

He wanted me to betray him too, because if I did it would mean he had been right all along. As long as I was nice, and treated him well, then the theories he had about humanity and the world were wrong. If I was good, if people could have the capacity for goodness in them, then he had nothing, but if I was like all the other monsters then, at least he was right. But I wasn't like them, and refused to let Greg believe that I was.

"Stop. I love you, and while I wouldn't mind if we could, one day, make love again, I'm not going to force myself on you, ever. Now, you're a guy so I'm sure you know I can't not react to being touched—and as much as I don't want to, if you keep doing what you're doing, my body is going to do something my mind has no desire of doing." For some reason this worked. House lay still in my arms, weak, and feeling mildly defeated. "You're gonna get stronger, you are," I swore. "You are going to feel better, a little. One day, all of this—," he cut me off again.

"One day! One fucking day? When is one day? How long do I gotta—how—not gonna get better. Not getting better. Wanna give up, but I need help—your help." His words came out in almost complete sentences, at this point, but he still had to keep pausing, searching for the right words and now he was asking me to help him committing suicide.

"Can I have more time to try and help you?" I asked, begged really. I knew I would have to watch him like a hawk because I knew if I didn't help him, Greg would do it himself, and he would do it right. He was a doctor after all, and knew exactly how many of which pills to take, or where to cut, or how to inject himself with an air embolus. He wouldn't fuck around with a noose, or playing at cutting himself until somebody noticed. He wouldn't try to drink drain cleaner, or anything that hurts like hell but won't kill.

"How long?" he asked, as if my answer would change his mind, like he really was thinking it over. I wanted to tell him the truth then, how my wanting to keep him alive was selfish. I needed House, needed to be near him, needed his neediness, and love. He was addicted to the pills, but I was addicted to him and if I let go, let Gregory House kill himself, my own death was sure to follow a week or two afterwards, at the very most.

"Give me a year—I know it sees like forever right now, but let me finish—twelve months, and you gotta try too, you gotta allow me to try and help make you feel better. And if a whole year goes by and there is no change, or you're feeling worse, then I'll hold you in my arms and I'll give you a—morphine, a lot, enough to take all the pain away."

"But what about—won't that make you get into trouble?" was House's only response. He didn't seem to process the timetable I'd set up, and I was starting to wonder whether he had really wanted me to do it. "Can you even live without me?" he asked in a tiny voice.

"No," I told him truthfully, even though I thought it might change his mind—then again maybe part of me wanted to keep him around so badly I was resorting to a childish gilt trip. "Although I think a large piece of me died that day, _too_. We're both, basically empty now. That's why I don't think I can let you go, because you complete me."

"Don't be stupid," he snapped, looking me over carefully. I think this may have been when he realized just how serious I was. "Ohgod you meanit," he moaned. I touched his cheek, softly and he didn't pull away. "I just—please be gentle."

"Jesus, House," I said, almost starting to cry, but some how managing to control myself, stopping it. "You still think I'm gonna—hurt you, don't you?" I asked. He didn't have to say or do anything; I knew it was true. "Do you want me to stop holding and touching you? It'll be more difficult to get you in and out of the wheelchair, but everything else will be fairly easy, and I can go back to sleeping in the recliner, and…"

"No, please," he cried out, latching onto me, pulling me in, closer and closer, letting me, almost making me, hold him once again, but holding me so tightly that he managed to pull himself together enough to keep form crying. "Don't let go. Please, don't go." I kept on holding him, but twisted my hips into an awkward position so as to make our contact as bearable for him as I could, trying to be close without hurting him. "You can have a year," he announced at last. "I know it—won't—but…make the promise?"

"I promise everything is going to be just fine," I swore, but neither of us believed it. "Do you want me to tell you the truth? The real truth?" I asked, about an hour or so later. We had been silent for a long time, lying so close, so quietly, and so still that I could hear and feel his broken and battered heart beating slow, weakly. "Nothing is ever fine and—one of the shrinks told me that you probably won't ever get—you're not going to get over it, at least not completely, but you can have a life. Isn't living worth something?"

The BT House would have said, "Only if I'm alive. Dead people don't care that they're dead. They can't care." Then he should have laughed, and popped a pill, but the new guy, the PTH (post Tritter House) could only bring himself to shrug.

Then he said, "Maybe. Okay. I—I'll try." He didn't have to tell me that the only reason he'd agreed was because I asked him to do so. I knew already knew that—and a few other things (a very few things) all by myself.

"I can't fix this, but I can, I will protect you now, and if you want, we don't ever have to leave this apartment." When I said this he looked up at me, wide-eyed like a child, almost innocent looking, and he nodded slowly. He believed me, almost. "You'll always be safe if I'm around. I won't let the bad guys get you again." He half smiled when I said this, and I knew I'd finally done something right.

_Thank you,_ he mouthed, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. Then I watched as the poor guy stared ever so longingly at the kitchen door. He was hungry now, but his childhood abuse had taught him not to ask for food, and I was almost positive that the BT House didn't eat (aside from pop tarts and peanut butter, which hardly a meal make) unless I offered to pay, or he stole from my food. Now I fed him three times a day (plus occasional sacks) but he was becoming skinner than ever, probably because I made healthier food, and he could only handle so much.

"I'm gonna have lunch now, you want some?" I asked, and was rewarded with a solemn, silent nod. "PB and J, alright? Mac-n-Cheese? "We worked together to move his body from the couch to the chair. "Candy, cookies, ice cream, cake?" I asked, willing to feed him pot brownies if it meant he would at least eat_ something._

"You really do like me, huh?" he said, sounding almost surprised. "Probably let me do anything…now." I think this actually did make him feel worse than he had before.

"I have always liked you, and there is nothing anybody can do or say to change how I feel. I will always, always, always, always, always love you. Don't tell yourself that I don't. My love for you has got nothing to do with what—happened."

"You feel bad for me, and you think that, I'm pathetic, weak. Think I need you. Think you're doing me a favor. You don't love me. You love my needed you, to take care of me."

"You're wrong, house…well you're partially wrong. I had a job where most of my patients died and I couldn't do anything for them, but I can help you. Being here, taking care of you like this—I feel useful but I love you—not because of," I stopped deliberately avoiding the words, _not because you were raped_, and he knew it. Before he came out of it, Greg seemed to appreciate my not reminding him what had happened whereas now he was mad that I wouldn't talk to him like he was a normal person.

"I was raped you idiot," he screamed at me, and then sat there, staring straight ahead for nearly fifteen minutes, and then finally he let go, and started to sob. I tried to hug him at the beginning of the long, gut-wrenching, painful series of sobs, but he pushed my hands away. Later when he had completely exhausted himself, but still couldn't stop crying—House's defenses were weakened--he let me put my arms around him. When it was all over he looked up into my eyes and said, "He—I felt likeIwasthesameweakstupid patheticlitelkid. Itwasalmostexactlythesame. Soweakandicouldntdoanything. I couldn't, make, him, stop. I said no, begged him to stop, but he didn't. He wouldn't." A few minutes went past before I said anything. I could tell he dint want me to talk, so I didn't. Then, he grabbed my arm and pulled it around his shoulder, tightly, and pulled himself onto the couch. "Pizza." His voice came out flatly and I picked out the phone, dialed our favorite delivery place, ordered, and hung up before saying anything or trying to comfort him in any way.

"It's time for your pills," I announced, even though he had well over an hour before he was supposed to get them. He didn't even try to stop me, not because he wanted to get stoned but because he needed to stop feeling this god awful pain. House was in no way a typical victim. He had never been given a chance to deal with the eighteen years of whatever you wanna call what his dad did. Add the Tritter thing into the mix, and the unbelievable amount of physical pain he was in and you might be able you understand why he needs to take massive amounts of drugs just to survive. I put one extra pain pill, and one more Xanax than usual in a Dixie cup, fully expecting him to just take them without saying anything about it, but he didn't.

I watched as his fingers picked up the pills one at a time, examined them and placed the ones he wanted (all of the Vicodin and the usual does of the others,) into his mouth, and swallowed them one at a time, with water. Then he looked over at me again, as if to say, "_why?_"

"Because it seemed like you needed them." He nodded and leaned back against me. I figured it would be best if I allowed him to get back on our usual Saturday schedule. "Wanna watch the movie?" House yawned, nodding a little. I had gotten my man bag and lost him again all in one day or at least I thought so at the time, and so I put _Vertigo _on for the third time in fourteen months.

"Thanksfornotpushingmetoohard," he managed to spit out the muddled, garbled sentence out like two long words. I told him he didn't have to do this, didn't need to thank me, but this seemed to be a bit patronizing, and his once sparkling bright blue eyes told me as much. I describe his eyes this way because they were now dark, angry, and all I could see when I looked into them was the pain, the fear and the hollow, broken shell of the man he used to be. Every time I looked into PT House's eyes all I could think of was the person he could have been, should have been, and it hurt me almost as much as he seemed to be hurting.

"I'll never push you—not unless, I'll never be like all the other bad people who have hurt you and pushed you too hard. I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever hit, or touch, or hurt you." He smiled for an instant when I said this and then leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. "And you don't need to do anything for me to feel this way. You don't need to earn my love."

"What you thought you were gonna get some?" he asked, and then sort of chuckled. "I'm not ready for _that_, but I am okay with sometimes—I wanted to do it. Didn't feel like I _needed to_." Then he got quiet again. When the pizza came he ate one slice and half of a second piece. I think at least part of this had to do with the fact that it made me smile to see him eating and enjoying food once more. House was fairly quiet throughout most of the afternoon, and even fell asleep on the sofa while we watched the movie, and slept there for almost three hours, while I held him, trying to figure out if his new behavior would last, and if so what changes this might bring to our lives.

I also sat there trying to discover what, if anything, I had done right to help him find his way to. I thought about why he sometimes seemed more out of it than others, and how he sometimes felt like he was lost or as though he had floated away. But when he woke up, I didn't know any more than when we had started this morning. While he was napping I had helped House's body move, so that he was lying down with his feet stretched out, and his head on a pillow in my lap.

He opened his eyes slowly, focusing on me carefully, and gave another one of those little half smiles. "Hi," he said, wiping sleep out of the corners of his eyes. "My hand hurts."

"Small wonder," I muttered, not really catching myself until after the words came out. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It was mean and nasty and again, sorry. It was stupid of me."

"It was sarcastic. I liked it," he explained, and then made the _I'm so pathetic_ look, and I knew what he wanted from me The Post Tritter House was more cautious now, when he wanted something, especially when that something happened to be pills. I checked the clock, shook my head, sighed, and handed him one all the same. "Thanks," he said weakly, latching onto me again. "Did you mean the thing you said before, about…you know?"

"Yeah, I did—I do. I'm pretty sure it would be a bad idea for us to spend all of our time talking about those sorts of things for the next year, but I will. If you really can't live like this after giving it a good hard try, then I will take you into our room and put on a record—if you want—or we can keep it quiet, and I'll hold you, and say how much I love you over and over again, and give you enough Morphine to make the pain stop forever."

"Wow." House looked up at me wide-eyed, and with his mouth hanging open. "Didn't think you'd say yes. You were really gonna doit." Watching him I suddenly realized that he had never really wanted to help him. It was all a test to see how much I cared, what I was willing to do for him. The man House had been before Tritter got his hands on him was always testing me, this was the first time the PTH had done it, and I actually passed, which was rare.

"Did I at least say the right thing?" I asked, wrapping my arms around his chest gently, and touching his hair with my fingers. "Did I say anything right?" He nodded, a slow, short, single, yes, but an answer nonetheless. "Now it's my turn to thank you. I don't know what I'd do if we didn't have each other, if I didn't have you."

Me either," he said. "Really think it might be okay someday?" The way the question was presented would make anybody who didn't really know House think he didn't care, but we were close enough that I wasn't falling for it. He was looking for a spark of hope, a single candle or flashlight, far off in the distance (maybe even years away) so things wouldn't see completely hopeless. As much as he needed me to promise that everything was gonna be alright, the truth was more important.

I wanted to be sure he understood just how long and hard a road we had ahead of us. He needed to understand the truth. "Might be okay, like twenty years from now?" he asked, desperately.

"I don't think it's as bad as you're thinking, but like I said, you're gonna need—we're gonna need to work really bad together, to make it so you feel comfortable with me, and anybody else you want, and to maybe get some function back in your hand, and maybe your leg, but it is also going to take time, but as I said, I think we can be happy."

"Happiness is over-rated," he snapped, but then looked down, away from me, like maybe he was afraid to say what he really wanted to. House needed me to reassure him even more. He needed to feel like there really ways something worth working for. "Say it Jimmy."

"Yes, but—don't interrupt me, this is important—yes but we aren't ever going to have a normal relationship, but normal sucks. When you…on days when you having more trouble breaking through, do you want me to—how hard should I—try and help?"

"I like the way you are now, especially when I feel lost. It's not so bad around you," he explained, pressing his face into my shirt roughly, like he was trying to wipe his eyes. "Do you think—you know what I asked before?" he asked. He wanted to ask, again, if I thought he would ever be okay again, and this time I was the one who nodded. "Thanks," he whispered to me, which turned out to be the last thing he said all day (except for a couple yeses, a no here and there, and a "please, Jimmy," when he wanted to snuggle close to me when we went to bed (an hour and a half later than usual) that night.

I loved having the old House back, but I didn't expect it to last. He was still frightened, unsure of himself, and the world around him, and in more pain than even he'd experienced. The whole thing made it very hard for him, but I think that breaking through the confusion, forcing his mind to concentrate, making direct eye contact, and everything else required for conversations were more difficult than anything else. So, I wasn't really surprised when I woke up the next morning to find him laying awake, quietly watching me while I slept.


	5. Getting There

"I wish I could push a button and make the pain all go away  
I wish I had the magic words but I don't know what to say  
I wish I could take the wasted years and throw them all away  
And it might sound easy for me to say  
You are going to find a way to fix what's broken  
Fix what's broken," Everclear.

Bad Cop Chapter Five:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

House communicated with me throughout the morning, by nodding, shaking his head, with hand gestures, a series of grunts, and occasionally—once—with a short burst of words, a semi-sentence, but I could tell he didn't feel like talking yet, and had no plans to force him. He ate some, but mostly just pushed the food around on his plate before I removed it from the table. In the afternoon, we watched TV on the sofa, and he let me hold him. I wasn't expecting it to be a bad day, but after all the talking he'd done in the last twenty-four hours, I wasn't surprised to see the poor guy acting all quiet, giving into the pills. Later we played poker, using chips, but no real cash, which we only did when he understood what was going on well enough to call, raise or fold, even when he did so without talking. When I got the cards out after lunch, he looked at me like there was something important he needed to tell me right away.

"What is it, Buddy?" I asked, stepping across the room and taking a seat next to him. "You okay?" I paused, waiting for an answer, but not really expecting one. "You wanna play poker? That it?" I asked, putting my hand over his. This time he hugged me, wrapping his arms around my chest, rightly, pressing his face into my shoulder. "Or we could just sit here and snuggle. That works too." He squeezed tighter, as I babbled, trying to make me shut up. "Sorry, I'm just not used to this. I'd be better if I knew what you wanted, but we're working on it. So, even that's okay, especially now, now that I know you're in there."

"Bad day," he whispered into my ear, squeezing again, holding onto me like a life raft. He wasn't really lost in the fog today, which seemed to make the pain and the fear worse, especially since there was nothing anyone could do to help him.

"Nightmare?" I asked, trying to figure out what had set him off this time, but he only responded by shaking his head. "Which trigger was it? Did I do something wrong? I hurt you somehow? No? At least it wasn't me. What made today worse than usual? What set you off?"

"I touched my leg and it felt like a bomb went off in there and then all of the sudden, I was back on the floor and he was kicking me and kicking me, telling me how pathetic I was, his face like a—a monster mask," he explained, quickly, and then started to cry into my shirt. After a minute, House pulled himself together, sitting back, looking at me suspiciously.

"Do you need an extra pill? Don't look at me like that, they're used to treat anxiety attacks, and if this isn't a panic attack, then I don't know what is." This time he both nodded and shrugged at the same time. "Here you go, Buddy," I said, when I brought them over.

"I'm sorry. Wanna play cards?" he asked quietly, and then stopped talking the whole time we played. "Why me? There are tons of strung out hookers, street kids, lots of people a whole lot more pathetic than me, easier to grab too. Not right. Not fair."

"Nothing in life is ever fair," I told him, and got a small shrug. "He saw you, the exact sort of victim he had been looking for and—listen to me, listen—what he did, had absolutely nothing to do with you. He's just a very, very, very bad man."

"So am I," House blurted out the words in a way that made me realize just how much he meant it. I knew better than to scream, _no you're not_, because he'd never believe me, and screaming would only hurt him. "I'm a horrible, nasty, bitter, mean, lying, jerk," he said in a flat, quiet vice, as though it was something he had heard, probably from Tritter. "Say I'm not?" he begged, grabbing my hand, pulling it to his heart. "It hurts."

"You're having chest pain?" I squeaked out in an extremely terrified, concerned way, but he squeezed my fingers hard, to make me look as he shook his head vigorously. "Opps, sorry, I'm an idiot, just like you used to tell me. You are a good person. You're a doctor. You save people's lives, people nobody else can save. And you've always been there for me. Nobody's perfect, but that doesn't make you a bad person. You're not, and you definitely didn't deserve what was done to you. Nobody deserves that." House only nodded when I said this, but I think it helped anyway.

We watched a little more TV, later, although he didn't seem to be paying much attention. Ever since the attack House had to be so doped up, the whole staring into space thing seemed to from the meds more than the rape trauma. He didn't talk all night, but wrote in his journal for more than an hour and a half. When I was helping him put on his pajamas, I reached to pull his boxers off, and he screamed. "Sorry. We can wait and do that tomorrow. Let me get the bottoms, okay?" Greg looked over at me, angry, and frustrated. "It's alright. Considering what you've been through, it's only natural for this sort of thing to freak you out," I tried to explain, moving into the chair by the bed, but he wouldn't let me.

"You don't know that," he whimpered. There were plenty of things I could have said then. I knew what was coming. I talking to both shrinks and they told me exact same sort of things toe expect, if he ever came out of this. They told me which questions he might ask, and what to tell him, and I was planning to do everything right. "You don't know what I've been through."

"I know what was done to you, physically. I've seen the effects it's had on you, but you're right. As far as what did actually happen that night, all I've got is Tritter's version. I'd be honored to hear it from you, if you feel comfortable telling me. It will help. Part of what makes this so hard is the power he has to control you, to controlling you. If you don't tell, it hurts, it festers, it stays there and doesn't get better, but when you tell, then people can talk to you, help you, and eventually it won't hurt as much."

"Bullshit," House spat, and threw his journal at me as hard as he could. "Wasn't able to remember everything. Kind of faded in and out a lot, but its all there. I can't say it, yet. Except for one thing. He kept saying, "I'm doing you a favor," when he stomped me. "Cripples don't do very well in prison, but if I can get you into the hospital ward for long enough, you just might make it," he said." I'd never heard any of this before and so it caught me by surprised, shocked me.

"He only said what he said to keep you quiet, to keep you from screaming. He wanted to make sure you didn't fight back. That bastard wasn't doing you a favor, and he knew it!" I calmed myself down, so I wouldn't scream and scare the crap out of him. "Are you sure you want me to read this?" I asked, putting it aside, and leaning in to help tuck him in. "Nobody's ever gonna hurt you again, not on my watch."

"Shut up," he whined, pulling the covers up over himself. "Read, and let me get some sleep." I left the lights on, even after he closed his eyes (as always), watching until the poor guy was fast asleep before looking away. The first thing I noticed about his journal entry was that it was written in third person. As usual, House was dealing with his problems by disassociating form it. Then again, I thought, why should I knock something if it was working for him? Next I noticed how he was referring to himself as "the boy." Greg must have flashed back to the abuse he suffered as a child when Tritter raped him. As I read, I moved to the edge of the bed, stroking his hair and whispering. "Its okay now, big guy. No more monsters, I promise. You'll see. Everything is going to be just fine, House. Everything is gonna be okay." Then I read what he had written.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Red lights flashing, loud noise, whee-woo, whee-woo. The bad man in the car. He grabs the boy off his bike and says, "You really shouldn't have done that, Doctor. Now I'm gonna make you hurt. Haven't got a thermometer, but I think I can still help you out," the monster says, sliding his hand into the boys pants, underpants. He touches the boy; fingers rolling over him, rubbing him down there, making the boy feel bad/good both at the same time. "You're a big boy, aren't you Dr. House. You took a pill when you were examining me. That's serious addictive behavior." The boy knows he won't get away now, even though he didn't do anything wrong.

"_I wasn't weaving. I'm not drunk. You have no reason to suspect…" he stops when the fingers reach into him, quickly, and then out, and into his pockets. _

"_You got a prescription for these?"_

"_I'm a cripple who works in a hospital. You don't think I could get a valid prescription?" the boy asks, in the vain hope that if he prays, God will finally listen, finally make the monster go away. Someone will drive past us, and find the monster with his hands inside of me, he thinks. I'll go to church, never steal, or cheat, or lie again. I'll be good. I won' take the pills anymore. Please help, please somebody stop him. But nobody comes, and the monster throws him into the car, quickly taking his hard thin gout of his hands, and touching it to the boys face, spraying him, and then putting gum in his mouth. _

_The boy cries all the way to the police station. He cries, and prays to god, even though he doesn't believe in god, and he's right. No god would allow this sort of thing to happen to anybody, especially not twice. Then the boy is in a dark room, tied up on the floor, with metal cuffs and no clothes on. The monster took them off, and he put more fingers in the boy._

"_You're not gonna tell anybody about this, are you Dr. House," he asks, but the boy can't talk. He slips away now, seeing nothing except for the dark cement floor. Pain in his chest, head, leg, tummy, hand, inside of him. Somebody's kicking, hitting, stomping, biting, touching, pain and pleasure together. His thing gets big and hard too, but it hurts, like barbed wire rubbing, squeezing him, blood spewing out the end, his whole soul coming out. He's being stabbed inside, over and over, and he's bleeding, dying. At leas the boy thinks, at lest it's all gonna be over soon, and then there won't be any more pain._

_  
The boy finds no comfort here. He never did. Even if death is coming, I still don't get to leave yet. The boy starts to plan his funereal. No church, God forbid—what god? I wanna get burned up the boy thinks. Then they can't ever touch me again. Wilson will come, my mom, maybe Cuddy, Stacy if I'm really lucky. Stacy, maybe she would have stayed if I had told her about the other monster, like I did Wilson._

"_Wilson," he whimpers in the dark, and all of the sudden there's something wet and sticky inside of him, down there, and something else rips, and there's blood. If only it would get bad enough. Please bash my brains in, the boy thinks as the fingers come back. "My pills," he pleads, sucking in his breath._

"_Nuh uh, bad boy," the monster chuckles. "You're an addict, but I've got hours before you even start to detox, and even then, who's ever going to hand drugs to a junkie?" the monster asks, and then kisses his neck, bites him there. "Comes on, admit it. You like this don't you, House/"_

_The boy disappears into the darkness, or at least, he tries. His eyes are closed but he can still see the monsters, both of them, standing naked over him, smiling, twitching, hard cocks pointing right at him. The boy thinks he should ask the monster to shoot him, but he's too scared the bad man will say no. They'll let me go soon, they have to. It's too much. More pain, all over. The pain feels worse now, worse than ever. He hates himself. It's all my fault, the tiny little boy thinks, and then the tears come, and this makes the monster very mad. Tritter hits him and kicks him again, beating him over and over. The pain is so great, but he's sure it's almost finished, and this time t does help. Then there's darkness all around him. When he wakes up in the hospital everything is foggy. _

The monster's gone and Wilson is there, but he can't even look at his friend. Everything hurts, even trying to think. So, when Wilson says, "it's okay, House. I'm here now. I'll protect you. Everything is gonna be okay, I promise. You don't have to worry, or do anything. Just relax, and let the meds help you. They will help you," the little boy wants to believe this more than anything, but he knows he can't.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It broke my heart to read that, but it also made me so proud of him. I could see the strength coming back into him. As bad as the whole thing sounded, and looked, I knew how hard it had been for him to write all of this down, even to think about it, and the fact that he could do it now meant that he was getting better. He was starting to heal.

I knew House was going to have a nightmare from the moment he'd told me it was a bad day—his freak out when I tried to take his shorts off was just stale icing on a cake made out of shit. And yet, when he woke up screaming, it still shocked me.

"I'm here," I said, letting him latch onto me, holding him like an over-grown child. The monster's gone and he's never coming back. If it makes you feel any—oh, okay. It's okay. It's me, Jimmy. You were having a bad dream, but the nightmare is over now, and it's just us. You want your meds?"

"I don't—what time is it?"

"You don't need to worry about watching the clock anymore. Right now all you gotta do is get yourself back to sleep. We can discuss cutting back on extra pills in the morning, but—" He cut me off mid-sentence.

"No, I mean…gimme, it hurts, but. I hate that I can't stop, but since you're not planning to cut me off, don't gotta worry. Wanted to now the time, how long do I needa stay in bed?" he asked, but Greg still wasn't used to actually speaking and was saying everything quickly, the words bleeding into each other.

"Wanna watch a movie or some crap TV on the couch?" I asked, already pulling the wheelchair up to the bedside with my free arm. I wrapped he other one around him, gently stroking his grayish-brown hair. House nodded, his head rubbing against my hand. "You wanna—okay, I'm just gonna put my arms around your tummy so I can help you into the chair. Know what would be hugely helpful? There you go, use your good arm. That's it, there we go, slide back, good job. We got it. You were a big help, Buddy."

"Never be able to do it myself. Don't understand why you stay with me. Pathetic, crazy, crippled addict, worse than before. Should just put me in the nuthatch or something." It was weird to hear him say this, since I had been hearing it from everyone else ever since I first took him home from the hospital last year.

"No! I won't, I can't do that to you. I will not abandon you, give up on, mistreat, hurt, or force myself on you. I promise. Beside, being in one of those places would _kill_ you. That why you asked me to—look at me, please? Do you still want me help with…? Try and hang in there, Pal. Do you think you can talk about what happened the night you were attacked? I have a few questions about what you wrote."

"The God thing?"

"You wrote, "the boy prays." God, you must have been terrified. I mean to—because you don't believe in—but when you were a kid, did you pray for—did you um," I stopped mid-sentence, mainly because I really had no idea how to put this right, but he seemed to understand anyway.

"Yeah, when I was really little, my mom used to take me to church with her, and I read the bible all the way through. We didn't go every week, sometimes not ever month, but I was young and stupid, so I thought into it. I was being—touched, and I prayed that someone would notice, or do something. I prayed for help and it never came. Same thing with the cop. We were on the side of the road, a busy street. Three cars drove by while he had his hands on my—in my—down my pants and nobody even slowed down. I'm a bad person now, and I can see why a god would have let me get raped this time, but what happened when I was little…that's why I don't believe, why I stopped anyway."

"You did not deserve this, and I don't know why no one rescued you, but—it wasn't because of something you did or said, and I—you really don't wanna discuss this, do you? Okay, what about the—you look like you're about to pass out. How about we go back to the bedroom?" I asked, reaching to pull him closer to me on the sofa. Greg yawned but shook his head, _no way._

"I got scared and confused when it happened. I felt like I did when I was a kid and—sometimes I still get confused, and then I don't—I'm not…I don't know how to talk about anything. Having you around helps. A little. This sucks." I could almost hear his brain turning, working hard to try and figure the words out before he had to speak them, but they weren't coming. "I just wanna forget it ever happened."

"No. That won't help, won't make you feel better. You can pretend like this doesn't effect you, or that none of what was done to you was real, but this isn't gonna go away, ever. It hurts and it's going to keep on hurting, but if you deal with this, talk about your dad—for lack of a better term—and the cop, then you can figure out why it hurts so much, maybe even feel better."

"But it won't ever completely go away, right?" he asked, almost demanded. I nodded and House made this soft whimpering sound, like a little puppy dog or something. "I hate sex—I did, even before the—attack. I hate all that stuff, but I never could stop thinking about it. I don't know how to deal with it, what I'm supposed to say, what I'm supposed to keep to myself. I wasn't even sure what was normal in a relationship, or what I was supposed to do with women.

"When I—half the time, the actual, you know—ending, doesn't even feel good. I was never sure how to respond to porn and that stuff, so I'd spend hours looking at it and…sometimes it felt good, sometimes it—scared the crap out of me, but mostly I just couldn't figure this out, and I know it probably sounds like I'm making this up because I don't usually talk like this, but you're the one who said I should tell you how I really feel. So here I am, explaining away all the stupid shit I used to say and do, and why I now act like I act now."

"Is being alive really so terrible, it can't be, or you wouldn't even bother talking to me. You'd just let the meds do their job of making you calm, and try not to feel anything. If you don't want to talk about this, then why are you working so hard?"

"You always seem so happy when I talk to you, and smile at your jokes an stuff. You keep on asking me to talk, so I do, and you asked me not to give up, so, I won't."

"Please don't tell me that you're only even trying because I begged you to," I pleaded, but he didn't respond. "Oh, God. Look, I don't want this to be painful, especially if you're just doing this for me. Give it a little time, and if I can't do anything to help you, then I'll let you out of your promise."

"What if I already started to feel a tiny bit better? I mean it might not ever be—see this why, if I can't do anything to make you mad at me, how am I supposed to get back to normal? You expect nothing from me, so I don't have to do anything to make you proud of me except occasionally open my stupid mouth."

"So your life is meaningless because you're not doing nuclear physics? Life isn't about the most difficult thing you…"

"Oh shut the hell up. You don't get it, which isn't really a big surprise. The meds help with the fear and stuff, but if slows me down so I can't think. Thinking is what I do best. Pretty much the only thing I _can_ do. I'd take less, of the pills, but I'm barely making it as is. I want you to push me, sometimes, and not too hard, and—I dunno. I want everything to be normal between us, but I don't know if I can do that."

"I will do whatever you want me to do," I promised, kissing his hair softly.

"Why? What did I do to deserve _that_?" he shouted, pulling way from me, his usual mixture of frustration and anger. "I haven't actually done anything, Jimmy, and just surviving doesn't count. Anybody could survive."

"No, they can't!" I shouted, which made him wince. "Lots of people don't make it, Greg, especially when this happens more than once. Your father abused you for years, when you were a toddler, and you never told anyone. Tritter came along and he saw that pain in you, that ear, and he knew you'd been attacked before."

"How the Hell is this supposed to help me?"

"He wanted to hurt you, destroy you if he could, and for most people, what happened would be enough to drive them nuts."

"But it did! It has! I'm scared all the time, and the meds, barely take the edge off. Every time you come near me my heart races. I only have one working hand and one working leg, and the other ones always hurt. Can't do anything. Can't even think anymore. What's left?"

"I love you. We can be together, love each other. What else is there?"

"Lots of stuff. Work, friendships, dating, sex. Not that I could do that one even before I was—sorry," he squeaked, looking away. "Guess I shouldn't complain, mostly don't even mind not doing anything. Most days, takes all my energy to watch TV with you, or whatever."

"I work very hard to make sure our days are fully planned out and full of activities," I snapped, feeling defensive more than angry or worried. I knew it was just House being House. Even after everything he wanted to screw with someone, and I was all he had, so he messed with me.

"Okay, Jimmy," he said at last, turning towards the TV screen, yawning, and closing his eyes. "Don't turn that thing off, okay? Like the light, and sound, helps me feel comfortable."

"It's okay, Greg. Nobody likes the dark. It's nothing to be ashamed of," I explained, softly as I placed my arm around his chest. "You just go ahead and sleep. Must be exhausted," I said, and we both yawned. House fell asleep on the sofa and after a while, I carefully moved out from under him, went to get myself some coffee and came back all long before he could wake up. Then, I held his body close to mine, and sat there, touching his hair and forehead. I drank my coffee, watched the morning news, and kept my eyes open incase Greg started to have another nightmare, which is what I always did when he napped on the sofa.

The only good thing about the nightmares was that they happened so often, early on, that by this point I could recognize the symptoms early enough to wake him up, and end the dreams if I was awake. "It's alright, House," I whispered, praying that he might hear it in his sleep, and I could help make him feel better. "I'm here to protect you, now. No more bad things, I promise. No more bad things," I promised, over and over, as I wondered how our life might change if he continued to come of the fog, if he really was starting to recover. Maybe he could go back to work, part time at least, consulting whenever there were cases other people couldn't solve without him.

It wasn't so much that he wanted to be busy 24/7, but it drove him nuts not being able to do anything on good days. I didn't see the tears at first, in fact, I only noticed them because he started to twist and turn in his sleep, his heart bating so fast his chest seemed to vibrate, loudly. I gave his arm a soft, gentle shake, and House awoke, startled, with a gasp. "You were having a bad dream."

"Another one, second time today," he explained sadly. "No don't give me that," House moaned, pushing my hand, and the pills away. "Too soon, and don't need it yet. Unless it can make the drams go away forever." Then he yawned again, stretching a little "Suppose you wanna talk about it. Probably think it would be good for me, don't you, Jimmy?"

"Is wanting to talk to you about the problem we're having really such a bad thing?" I asked, continuing to play with his hair, especially the little tufts on his forehead. For some reason it always helped him feel calm, so I did it whenever he needed me to. "Just tell me about the dream. I think getting everything will help, make it less horrible."

"You know for a fact?" His voice sounded angry, accusatory, although I think he wanted me to be right, even if he didn't think I was. After everything he'd been through, he didn't want to get his hopes up. "I was a little kid, like five or six, maybe seven, and I was riding a gigantic tricycle and I heard sirens so I stopped and stopped up. The cop got out of his car and it was Tri—him. He grabbed me, dragged my body towards the car, and he made me sit in his lap, grinding into me, and talking, in my dad's voice, and I couldn't. I'm not sure how the rest of it went." I could tell he was lying to me, and yet I decided not to push him just yet.

"Can I ask you something, House?" I asked, hugging him again. "Did your father do that? Take you out to the car, and hold you in his lap?" He nodded. "A lot?" A shrug. "More than once? More than ten times? Christ," I whispered.

"Didn't think you believed in _him_," he chuckled and touched my fingers. "That one wasn't so bad. Kept his pants on, and mine. No hands on or in me, no touching his—no, none of the real horrible stuff. I didn't like it, and it hurt just as much as everything else, but I—things could always be worse. That's what he used to say. 'You have no idea how easy you have it, Greg," and stuff like that." House sighed, and leaned back, letting me stroke his hair for a while. "That feels nice." Then he smiled, leaning in to kiss me quickly on the lips, mouth closed.

"You don't have to do this for me, you know that right?" I asked, gently pushing him away. "If you're ready I would love to be with you, even if all we ever do is lay in bed together, even if that's the last kiss I ever get, even if you—but the point I was trying to make is this. Whatever happens, I still love you. I'm contended to live the rest of my life taking care of you."

"You're pathetic," he said, and kissed me again, quick and short. "Kind of like that though. I'd be screwed if you weren't here with me. Wanted to kiss you, but nothing else, not yet," he explained, and then sat up in my arms, which actually did take a while, because he wasn't very strong, physically, but he refused to let me help him, so it wasn't like I had much of a choice. "Don't understand why this bothers me so much. Got used to what my dad did. In comparison this is nothing."

"This, what your dad did, what you're doing, what Tri—what the cop did, is huge, and you never dealt with what your father did, which is what makes this a million times more painful. You shut down because you didn't know how to deal with all of it."

"But when am I gonna get better? Or start to get better?"

"You've already started. Really, a month ago you couldn't string two words together. Now we're having conversations, discussing things. You kissed me today. Yes, it's slow in coming, but you are getting there. It is happening. You're getting better, and everything is—you may never return to normal, but some level of happiness isn't out of the question. You can see that, can't you? You know it's possible, right?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. I get confused, sometimes and sometimes I feel scared. That's all it is. I just can't figure out how to make it stop, go away. I get that this was a big deal; I was there when it happened…sort of. I—on the really bad days I can't, sometimes I feel so—if you ever tell any of this to anybody, I'll kill you, understand? —I'm so scared and confused it hurts to—well everything, which is why I don't talk, and I just sit there, letting the meds take over."

"You get confused because your brain is having trouble trying to deal with the two unimaginable horrifically bad things that have happened in your life, and it's more than anyone could handle alone. If you'll talk to me, I think it might help, maybe you'll never be able to completely take care of yourself, but it would be nice if you were able to do a few things."

"What kind of things?" he asked, sounding concerned but mostly I think he was in agreement with me, but didn't want to admit it just yet. I was about to say I wasn't sure, but House nodded. "Okay, I'll do it. This isn't gonna be easy, and I don't think the bad days are ever gonna go away for good, but maybe we can make them less frequent, less bad. Really think you can do this?"

"I think you're pretty much on track there. It's not going to magically disappear no matter what we do, but I'll do everything I can to make it easier and less painful for you, if you'll let me. I'll be there for you, forever," I promised, and he made a little half smile. "What's so funny?"

"You keep on saying that," House said in an almost normal voice. "It's not bad, just don't know if I need to hear it every five minutes."

"I'm glad you felt okay to tell me this. I think it means something, important. I also want you to feel free to say something if I do anything to bother you. So I can stop, or change to make you more comfortable. The only reason I was saying it so often was so I could remind you that you're not alone, and that you never will be. I know how much you worry, or at least how much you used to worry about me, abandoning your, or walk out or—" I didn't get to finish my sentence because House hugged me, tightly, and kissed me again, this time opening his mouth a tiny bit and quickly touching his tongue to my lips, before he pulled away. "I'm sorry, did I do that wrong, or did you want me to—" Greg interrupted me, again—which was actually getting on my nerves.

"Oh shut up, Jimmy," he muttered, touching the side of my face. "You did exactly what I wanted you to do, nothing. I felt like kissing you, so I did, and I felt brave so I went a little further and I knew I could because I know you'd never do anything to hurt me. Just keep following my lead. I trust you to listen if I say stop. So, what am I supposed to talk about here? That's what's gonna help me, right?" I nodded. "Well where should I start? Between dear ol' Dad, and the stupid fucking cop, there's a lot of shit to wade through, and I haven't the faintest idea where to—how to get going."

"How about we start at the beginning?" I suggested, but House gave me a strange look, like he didn't know exactly what I meant. "Start with how it all started. Can you remember the first time he," I paused, unsure of how to continue, but I didn't need to say exactly what I was thinking. He understood me. "Then start with that, okay?" I asked, and he nodded.


	6. Therapy

"Are you alright?  
Is there something been bothering you?  
Are you alright?  
I wish you'd give me a little clue.  
Are you alright?  
Is there something you wanna say?  
Are you alright?  
Just tell me that you're okay.  
Are you alright?  
'Cause you took off without a word.  
Are you alright?  
You flew away like a little bird.  
Are you alright?  
Is there anything I can do?  
Are you alright?  
'Cause I need to hear from you.  
Are you alright?" Lucinda Williams

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bad Cop Chapter 6:

"But I told you about that already, last year when I was—no sorry two years ago. Fine, just don't look at me like that. Was in a Kindergarten and my mom went to her sister's house for," House paused, his eyes looking up, and rolling back slightly, searching in his mind. "I dunno how long. Dad had this theory that kids didn't need to eat as much as hard working grownups. So, he would give me a piece of toast or something small before I left in the morning, I got school lunch, and then—if I didn't screw up, which could be anything from forgetting to call him sir to mouthing off, horsing or goofing around, bad behavior, or lots of other stuff—anyway, he couldn't do that stuff as much when Mom was around, but…after a couple days I got to be really hungry and I snuck into the coatroom and ate stuff out of other kid's lunchboxes, and got caught. They called him up, worried we weren't making enough—worried he couldn't feed me," House paused, uncomfortably.

"It's okay, Buddy, just relax and take as much time as you need."

"Funny thing was, he didn't get mad, took me home that afternoon and let me eat ice cream and cookies and stuff, 'till I got sick all over myself. Then he said I need a bath. "_Come to think of it, Son, I need one too. Let's save time, take one together."_ Was five, and stupid, and scared of him, so I said, okay. He put me in his lap with his—so he was pressing up against me, made me spread my legs so he could touch it up against my stomach. Told me he loved me—I think he said I was, "Special little guy." He was being nice, so when he told me to touch it, I did, even though I was scared. Then Dad—when he was finished, he started playing with my—he put his hand on my…this is really difficult for me, and I don't think you realize that."

"I think it's excruciating, and I think that if you bottle it up inside then you're never going to—telling someone lets this out, get it off your chest. I also hold you while I listen, which helps to join the bad memories with something comforting, so that every time it comes back all of the bad things won't seem as horrible."

"So all you can do is minimize the pain?" he asked, looking up at me again, this time like he couldn't believe I would ever say this.

"Unless one of us builds a time machine, so I can go back to before he hurt you and blow his brains out all over the place, then yes. I know you didn't want me to answer that way, but you'd know if I was lying to you. A little pain now, talking about this stuff, will make it hurt a lot less over the years."

"He put his hand on me, ripping and pulling and squeezing and it felt good, but not _good_, and he said, I was supposed to feel like that. After the bath, he asked if I wanted to sleep in the big bed with him and—" House bit down on his lower lip.

"You were too scared to say no?" I asked, cutting in, to save him the pain of having to tell me something so obvious. He nodded, cuddling close to me, and pulled my hand up to the top of his head, so I could play with his hair. "You're doing a really good job here, House. I'm really proud. Does this help a tall?" I asked, and was about to clarify myself when he nodded. "May I ask you some questions, Pal?" Another nod. "I can see how your dad was able to hurt you so easily when your mom was out of town, but what happened when she came home.

"He was quiet, and I was too terrified to make a sound. Sometimes, when he drove me to school, and I'd sit—he would make me sit in his lap, or—He said he'd kill her if I told which actually isn't that unusual, so I've heard. Anyway, the guy knew how to sneak around, apparently." I saw his eyes squeeze closed, and then a tear slipped down his cheek, and I leaned in and kissed it away. "Thanks," he whispered.

"We're gonna take a break now, okay? This is clearly stressing you out and if we push too far it's going to make you worse. Would you like another Xanax, I mean do you need it, or if you don't need one, but it would make you feel better then we should do that. Just relax, but I need to reach into my pocket to take the pills out, is that alright? Good. I know it probably makes me sound like an idiot, talking non-stop, but when you were really out of it, you responded really well to the sound o my voice. So I'd talk to you all day long, every day."

"I like you're voice, Jimmy. Pretty. Like a girl's," he told me, with a sarcastic giggle. "You gotta stop giving me these zany pills. I just giggled. Not a good thing. Guess it's my only complaint though. Only one you can do anything about anyway. Tired a lot, but that happens with that many of any pill…almost." I nodded, gently pressing my lips to his hair, kissing his head. "You're crying."

"It's just that the other doctors said—" I gasped, but kept talking, even through the tears. "The doctors at the hospital told me that you wouldn't ever come out of I t. They said you'd probably be catatonic for life. Everybody said I should just put you in an institution and given up on you."

"If you had, never would of come of it—come out? That's what you're gonna go with? Sort of a stupid thing to say, isn't it? 'Come out?' Shit, Jimmy. No wonder you can't keep a girlfriend."

"Just when I thought I appreciated having the old you back," I joked. "You go ahead and vent. You can yell and scream and call me names all you want. If it makes you feel better you can stick flaming arrows in my eyes."

"Just your eyes?" he asked, his eyebrows arched. "You are such a dork." Then he leaned back against me again, with a sigh. "Guess I'm lucky, 'cuz you wouldn't take such good care of me if you weren't. Maybe if I can get better—or part of the way there, we might, one day, be—might get to, maybe, you know, do some of the stuff we used to."

"Like play Foosball? I think that would be great, if you would feel safe enough to do it some time, in the future, but for now let's make it a rule that if you're too uncomfortable to say something, then we can't do it yet. As much as I would love for us to be able to make love again, but not if it's going to push you back over the edge."

"I know, not ready. Just hope might be there one day. Do you think I could ever get there?" he asked, but didn't pause to let me answer. "I know. You won't hurt me, not ever. Like to be able to trust somebody, especially you. Hafta admit, you were right about the talking thing. Did help, a little, getting it out. Maybe could do it again?" he asked with a nervous little smile.

"You can always feel free to talk to me about anything at all. I love you, and I'm here, and you really don't wanna hear this from me, do you? Okay, well at least I can read the signals, right? So, what did you wanna tell me?"

"My dad used to give me beer sometimes, to keep me quiet, I think. I mean, he probably liked the fact that getting me drunk would make it impossible for me to fight back. Hell, half the time I just passed out or got so drunk and giggly that I didn't care what he was doing. After he stopped, he caught me drinking, and broke my wrist. Told him, I said, "I'll tell everybody if you try and stop me again."

"And he left you alone then? Or at least he let you drink when you—from time to time?" I asked, already knowing how he was going to respond. _No_. " Do you want me o shut up and let you finish?" He only shrugged. "Little kid's brains aren't fully developed, and therefore—it's not surprising that you have had problems with substance abuse."

"Don't be stupid. I knew that since high school. He said nobody would believe me now, because I hadn't told anybody when I was little. I told him I knew he was full of it. Plus I've got that scar on my chest from when he tried to teach me that lesson with the axe. Still threatened to hurt me if I ever got caught drinking again."

"So you didn't get caught?" I asked, letting my hand drift down to the back of his head, close to his neck, sort of tickling him. "Which wrist?" I asked, stupidly thinking that it made any difference. "Sorry I guess I don't really know how to respond to some of this stuff. Just felt like the right place for me to say something."

"So you just said the first thing to pop into your head, regardless of whether it was inappropriate or not?" he asked. "Welcome to my world. My left arm, that time. Doesn't matter. Wrist is just about the only thing not hurting now. Never apologized to me, doubt he thinks it was wrong to do whatever he did."

"I think he can't admit what he's done, but I'm sure...there are probably a lot of things he did that your dad would still justify or would say you're exaggerating, making up, but I think he's ashamed of this. How could he not be? But he can't apologize to you because he can't even admit that he's done these things, to himself. I doubt he sees the connection between what he did and the person you've become as an adult."

"Only an idiot wouldn't realize that a person's childhood has an effect on what sort of adult they become."

"I didn't say that. Most people live with their parents for what, eighteen, maybe nineteen years? And the—this stuff lasted from the time you were five until you were ten? That's about a third of your time, and to you and me I seems like a long time, but maybe he doesn't see it the same way. I'm not making excuses for him. There is no excuse for what he did but maybe he's convinced himself these things to help ease his own guilt."

"Meanwhile, I'm still screwed up, scared, and completely unable to maintain or even get any sort of a personal relationship, with anybody—except you. I hate him! Wish I could call the bastard up and scream at him for a couple of—Jimmy where are you going?" he asked, stopping mid-sentence when I got up off the sofa.

"You can relax, I'm not going away. I just want to grab the red journal. What you said gave me an idea." I got him set up at the kitchen table, sat next to him, and then put my hand on top of his, "I want you to write your father a letter. Put in everything you've ever wanted to tell him, but didn't, all the stuff you were too scared, or young, or out of it to say. Don't censor yourself, we're not sending it. Just," I paused, picking his hand up in mine, unsure of how to continue, but luckily he understood me and, as usual, was several steps ahead of me, even on my own ideas.

"Just get out, get rid of it, like the other stuff." House gripped the pen and pad awkwardly, leaning over it as if to try and block my view. "Are you gonna read this?" he asked, looking over at me, and I shook my head. "Promise?"

"I swear on my life. I promise, not to read a word of it, unless you specifically tell me to do so." Almost as soon as I said this he went right back to writing his letter. He worked on it, without pausing, for more than an hour and even then he only stopped to shake a cramp out of his hand. By the time he finished, there was less than a page left in the whole thing. "Well I guess it's a good thing I keep a lot of these around the apartment, huh? Did you stop because you were done, or because you ran out of room?"

"No, I was done," he said softly. "Don't feel much like talking right now, especially not small talk, okay?"

"Of course. You know we missed your soaps this morning, but I put it on the DVR so you can always watch it if you fall asleep or don't feel like sitting on the couch at the regular time. Or we could watch a movie, or put music on or—okay I'm just going to shut up now and let you relax."

"Thought you said I was getting a motorized chair," House quipped, as I pushed him into the living room/den area.

"I ordered it last week, but it's a custom job so it might be a few more weeks, but it'll be here pretty soon, so I guess for now it's just a waiting game. And then you'll be able to get around without any help from me, which is good 'cuz you're a pretty independent guy, and I know how much it's gotta suck, needing someone to push you around all day."

"You have no idea. Can watch whatever you want, not really all that interested. Just wanna take a couple extra pills and space out for a while. Don't be mad, please?" I wrapped my arms around him, pulling his body close to mine, and made a very soft kissing sound.

"I'm not mad. I'm not even gonna make the face. If you need a little time to chill, then that's what we're gonna do. How 'bout one of each? Sound good to you?" I asked, fully expecting him to ask for more, but he didn't. He just nodded, and took them from me.

After the pills kicked in, he laid back, putting my hand up on his hair, and curled up as best as he could, staring into space. He was completely gone all afternoon and through dinner, but he became more communicative during the night, and at bedtime he was back to normal, or at least the new normal. "Welcome back to the land of the living," I joked, and he responded to it well, even smiled at me.

"Thanks, I needed a break. Already starting to feel better. Maybe one more before we go to sleep?" This time I nodded, so as to give him as much time to talk this out for himself as I could. "I uh, I was smart. I was always smart, but he didn't care. Even when I did really well at stuff, he'd just shrug and say, "you're smart. You're supposed to get good grades." In sixth grade, I wanted to get into the science fair but it was only for the kids in 7th and 8th. I managed to talk my way into them letting me do it, and I ended up winning. I got first prize, beat out everybody. Most f them honors students, twos years older than me, and I kicked their stupid little butts."

"How did you feel when you won?" I asked, touching his hand gently, and started stroking his hair.

"Excited. My teachers and a bunch of kids in my grade were all amazed—which is weird 'cuz I didn't do anything _that_ amazing, but it was better than volcanoes and taste testing soda pop. Mom was proud, but he didn't even tell me I did a good job. He never did. Never proud, never liked me. I hate him, and he hates me. Not, exactly Barney material, but it works for us."

"You _should_ hate him, but he doesn't fee that way. Now he was wrong in everything he did, but it wasn't meant to be torture. He thought hitting you, beating the crap out of you, was an effective form of discipline, and the other stuff was something he couldn't control. There is no great conspiracy against Gregory House. Your dad screwed up, big time, but he never hated you." This time there was more than one tear. In fact there were a lot of them, and he fell asleep afterwards, luckily we were still in bed, so I didn't have to worry about waking him up and moving him around. I just held his body in my arms, and lay awake all night, playing with his hair until he woke up the next morning, looked over at me and smiled.

"Glad I have you, Jimmy," he said quietly, and then touched my face just under my eyes. "Must not sleep much, huh? 'Cuz of me?" Even though he asked that last part, it wasn't really a question, and if I had said no, he would have known I was lying. "Should hire a nanny or baby sitter so you can take a nap."

In the old days I would have said, "the only reason you are even suggesting such a thing is because you think it would be hot to sleep with a woman in one of those little nanny uniforms," and he would have turned it back on me, but now I just tussled his hair, and smiled a little. "I'll be fine," I told Greg, and he must have believed me because that's all either of us said between then and lunchtime.

"Why do you keep up these schedules?" House asked, but didn't wait for me to answer. I think he just said whatever he could think of to get my attention. "I didn't know what the cop wanted when he first pulled me over. Then he rubbed up against me, and I could feel his—damn, I can't even say that word anymore. When he did that, I freaked out, and my brain—I don't know how to describe this to make you understand, but I was myself, but the kid me, like when my dad was…Anyway, think it's worse because of that. Like, if it had never happened, then wouldn't have regressed and it wouldn't have fucked me up so bad and maybe would have gotten over it by now."

"You were kidnapped, beaten to within an inch of your life, and raped, in more than one way, multiple times, and all of this happened in less than twelve hours. That's enough to drive anyone out of their minds. You are not at fault here. You're not screwed up, because you didn't deal with what happened when you were a kid. Didn't help, but even just this one assault is more Hell than most people can handle. You and me sitting here, talking, being together, this is a miracle. I'm just glad to be able to help you, even if I only get the love of my life back a couple of days out of the month."

"Two stupid things in that statement. Few days out of the month? So _not_ your period. Oh yeah, and one more thing. Love of your life? Gimme a break. Besides, you love everybody," he explained, pulling off not only sarcasm, but also his first metaphor since that nihgt. If he wasn't so annoying it would have been the proudest moment of my life.

"I love you. I have loved you ever since the day we met, but I didn't know exactly what it was for a coupe of years. I was eighteen. I hadn't had sex with anyone, and didn't know what a guy crush was, but when I figured it out, when we started to do stuff together; I knew you were the one for me. Just figures you wouldn't ever settle for my sorry ass."

"Me settle for you? Kidding, right?" He looked up at me for a long time, staring into my eyes, and I knew he didn't believe me. My only hope was that in time he would. "Wow. You know, you're the only guy I ever did this stuff with too. 'sept for…actually, well you know, the only guy I ever wanted to do stuff with. Wanted to be with you right away too, but you're just pretty, like a girl. Figured I wouldn't have to talk to you as much as a with a chick. Little did I know…"

"Well good, then my evil, secret plan worked. And that wasn't even a little bit funny, was it? Going back to your original point, do—you weren't Tritter's first victim. He had done this seven times before, both men and women. One of them committed suicide, two more have tried and failed, most are institutionalized. The first person he ever attacked ended up on the streets, even though she had a good job, nice place, a family—well parents and a sister—the point I'm trying to make here is that this is not the sort of thing anybody can just—get over, or move on from."

"It's all sort of jumbled up in there and sometimes, can't tell which thing, fear, pain, memory—I can't always tell who did what to me, because I was so scared with both of them. Even the thoughts that I know came from my dad, or the cop…it's hazy, like a really old movie that I haven't seen in a long time, can't remember it very well."

"It's a coping mechanism. The brain represses painful memories that are too difficult to understand and deal with, and for most people, it's a good thing. They don't wanna know what they forgot, don't ever want to think about it. On the other hand, you're the type of person who likes to know everything."

"Not this," House admitted, looking at his feet as though he was ashamed of it. "Wanna know just 'bout everything else but not this. Too bad, it'll come back, even if I don't want it to, eventually. Used to take me on camping trips—fishing, hiking, and—everything else people do on those things. First time we went, I was seven, liked it too. Caught a big fish, and he cooked it for dinner, almost seemed nice…until that night, bedtime. My mom had bought me a brand new sleeping bag, but he left it in the car. Said it was on accident. Too late to go out to get it. Knew better than to remind him during the day. Too scared he'd be mad. Four days, by the time we left, could barely keep from shaking." I opened my mouth to say something, but he just held his index finger over his lips. "Just getting' stuff out. Nothin' nobody can say to make it go away, but helps—like you said."

"I know that no matter what I say or do, I can't take the memories away, or make up for any of the horrible things you went through, but isn't there something, anything I can say to comfort you, and sort of bond my words and actions to the memories so that when you remember this stuff, it won't seem so—"

"You already said that."

"I know, and I want you to tell me it's okay before I do anything that might hurt, or upset you."

"Said _that_ before too, though, it's not too bad hearing it again. Don't interrupt anymore okay? Wasn't really finished. One day it started to rain, and at first Dad said, "it's only a little water." But when it started lightening and thundering, he pulled me back into the tent, dried me off with a towel, and told me to take off the wet clothes, because I only had one change. He said it wasn't proper to wear pajamas during the day, gave me his t-shirt—a extra one of his, but I got so scared, I _was_ shaking then. So he says, "get in the sleeping bag before you freeze…" Must of thought shivering from the cold." This seemed to be all he was able (willing?) to tell me, and so I let him stop.

"What happened when you got home?" I asked. "I mean, didn't anybody notice that you were scared out of your—did anybody notice? What did you tell her?" He still wasn't saying anything. "Okay, just tell me what you can."

"That nihgt, with the cop, he said something, something my dad said, about nobody—nobody would believe me, he said. He was right. If the other cops hadn't of walked in on us, he could of done lots more stuff to me, and—he would have been right."

"I would have believed you. I always believed you. I still always believe you," I swore, sitting p, instantly, and making sure he looked me in the eyes, and understood that I was telling him the truth.

"Not if you were mad at me for getting arrested, or…whatever. I'm really tired of talking now, can we go eat breakfast?" he asked, clearly uncomfortable, and desperate to change the subjected. I nodded, and helped him into the kitchen to get us some food. "Have we got any pizza leftovers?"

"I could order one if we don't—no? Let's take a look in the fridge, okay?" This time he nodded, softly rubbing the fingers of his left hand with his right. "We are in luck," I announced, pulling the pizza box out. "Six slices. You wanna heat it up first? Hey wanna give me some help?" I placed two paper plates, two plastic glasses, and a couple napkins on the table. Set up both places with one plate, one cup, and three napkins each? Don't give me that look. I'd let you make the coffee if you could, but you can't, and this is the best I can do." House did as I asked, and then sat back, and gently placed his palms on either side of his chair.

"Don't need a plate to eat cold pizza, idiot," he said, but placed a slice on his dish all the same. "Really, really wish the Ketamine had worked. No pain, no cane, no pills, without the cane, he couldn't a tripped me. I would of given up, no thermometer. No thermometer, no—payback."

"He would have been your patient either way, and he would have still seen that pain and fear in your eyes. He would of known that you'd make the perfect victim. If this guy was willing to do what he did because of what you did, that wasn't an insane reaction, over reaction. I'm not, I'm sorry, I should have realized what you—you are trying to blame yourself for this, and it's _not_ your fault."

"I know but…maybe he would-a gone easier on me. Maybe wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe wouldn't be so scared all the time. Should have grabbed my cane from the bike, beat him up, and driven away, but then he could arrest me. Damned if you do…can I say something, else?" he asked, and I picked up his hand, kissed it softly, and nodded. "I used to have these dreams, when I was a kid, where he had me in a dark room, on a cold, hard table, stone maybe, my head covered, mouth covered, couldn't scream. And then he was—on top of me, all of his weight squishing me. I couldn't breathe, and then he was—the dreams always felt like they lasted for hours and hours, but I had this little watch I always wore, especially when I had to sleep out side. So, I always knew what time it was, how long I had to be on alert for. Sometimes I'd wake up, be happy 'cuz it was just a dream, go back to sleep, and then it would go right back to the same point and I couldn't make them stop. I couldn't even cry, wasn't allowed to, he said. Try to make it a point to let one tear go, every time I see him now. Like to prove a point, act like a kid too. Eat junk, cuss, watch crap on TV, drink too much—well that's not kidlike, but…well you know me."

"I don't think you were doing it to show him up. Well maybe you were, but that wasn't the only reason. You never got to have a real childhood. Your father never let you do any of the stuff normal kids get to do. Right after you left, you went to college, then med school, internship, specialty training. Once you got through with all that you were free to do whatever you wanted—which is why you were basically still a little kid when all of this happened, which is—at least in part why it was so difficult for you to deal with."

"Well isn't that astute," he muttered, sarcastically, but the look on his face told me that I had gotten it right. "So what? How does any of _that_ help me? Or were you just showing off how smart you are?"

"You like answers, the truth, information. You eat this stuff up. You weren't doing anything bad before you were attacked. Part of your problem is that you think you were. You were acting the way any kid who never got to grow up would have. You were mean, but not a monster, and if that idiot cop had even a shred of human decency in him, he would have seen it, and let you go, but he didn't. When Tritter testified he said he picked you from the moment you walked through the exam room door."

"He did?" House seemed shocked, and he bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying. He looked at me for more than a minute, studying my face, as though he were expecting this to be a lie. "I thought I—he really said that?" he asked. "It wasn't my fault? It wasn't my fault. He just—picked me?" As many times as he had heard me say these things, he had to learn it for himself, needed to come grips with all the shit that had happened, what he'd been through, and now that he understood the one thing, the big thing (that it really wasn't his fault, not in any way) all of the other stuff was starting to fall into place.

May I ask you a question?" When I said this, I was fully prepared for the old BT-House response, "you just did," but he didn't say anything. "When you were—a kid, did you have any reason to be afraid of…had he ever hurt you, before the sexual abuse started?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, but that was it, like he was making it a point not to answer me.

"Okay, these one word answers aren't really helping me. If you can't or don't want to talk right now then I'll lay off, let you relax for a while, but if we're gonna do this, then we both really need to—I know that look. What did he do? What could he have done at that age? You were barely five when he started molesting you. How long was he—what was he even doing in those days?"

"Everything except…The first thing I can remember is being in this bright yellow room, with a stuffed animal. My mom was holding me, singing to me. Couldn't have been more than one or two, 'cuz I remember when he took the froggy away on my third—no fourth birthday. "You're a big boy now, and big boys don't sleep with teddy bears." But she's singing, singing to me, holding me, rocking me.

'My second memory takes place in the same room. I'm standing there in wet Pjs—an accident—and _he's_ tearing the sheets off of the bed, screaming at me "what the hell is wrong with you? You stupid little freak! Don't you know better than to piss all over yourself? And then he grabs me, rips the Pjs off, and pulls my body over his knees. He hits me, hard, over and over, with his belt, I don't remember which end—I couldn't sleep on my back for two weeks. There isn't, that is I mean, uh… I can't remember a time when I wasn't scared of him.

"Got the crap beaten, kicked, and eventually, fucked out of me on a regular basis, for a variety of reasons: spilling my drink at dinner, not calling him sir, bed wetting, getting into a fight at school, talking back to him, "stealing" food from the fridge in the middle of the night, shoplifting a candy bar, not doing my homework, playing with the axe he used to chop up firewood—he used to beat me with it too—swearing, not finishing my dinner, when I got one, lying—lying or not telling him everything. Those two were the really big ones. Apparently I did that a lot—I was a very bad little boy, in his eyes at least. Sometimes I knew what I had done wasn't so bad, especially as I got older, but when Dad used to say, "You're the worst little boy in the world," I had a hard time not believing him."

"Oh God," I whispered, horrified, and as always, I found myself hating John House more than ever, which if you think about it, is actually a real talent, considering how much I hated him to begin with. "You do know there isn't a single thing for me to say in response to that, except, that you're not, you weren't, and your father is pure evil."

"Don't really wanna hear _anything_ right now. Can we go lay down on the couch and be quiet for a while?" I nodded, took him into the den, and then I held him, stroking his hair, whispering very softly into his ear. He only cried a little this time. When it was all over, he looked up at me with a sad smile and said, "Thanks, I'm feeling a lot better now. So, we gonna do this every day, three times a week, twice a week, or what?"

"I think we shouldn't make this part of our regular routine, because there are times when you aren't going to feel like talking, and if you have time scheduled, you might start to feel forced, and then I'll loose you again. Do you think you would be okay to tell me whenever you want or need to tell me something?" He nodded, a very slow, careful nod, but still a yes. "Does that work for you or would you rather just go ahead and make it part of our regular schedule?"

"No, I like your plan. Sound about right. I like it. Think, finally being able to talk about all this is helping, even if—need to disappear for a little while after I'm done talking. Just…not used to thinking about it, let alone telling somebody what he did to me—what they both did."

"I think it's like you said, you're not used to these memories and it brings up all these other memories, feelings, fear, anxiety. So, when we finish our conversation, you're gonna need to escape for a few hours, or a few days, but over time these feelings are going to have less and less of a hold on you. Hopefully you might even, eventually, get to the point where you can do this and not need to escape every time."

"I'd like that," he said, and I knew it was the truth. He was getting better or at least stronger. I was actually helping him, healing him. Things would never be perfect, not even close. Hell, it would be a miracle if he could be half the person he was before Tritter, but it was still better than the alternative. "But for now, I'm not, I can't—I need…" I gave House the pills and he chewed them, which hated, but still tolerated.

The two of us spent the next five days on the sofa (except for meals and when he slept) and then slowly, he started to come out of the fog again. It was another week before he got all the way back to the way he had been behaving for the past month and a half but I knew that each time we went through this cycle there were going to be more really good days and the time he needed to rest would last for fewer and fewer days as well.


	7. Mommy

AN: I know it's really similar to _The Doctor's Doctor_, but I really don't think House can get well without his mom in the picture.

"Don't let us get sick  
don't let us get old  
don't let us get stupid, all right?  
Just make us be brave  
And make us play nice  
And let us be together tonight," Warren Zevon.

"How come he didn't just kill me? Woulda have been a lot easier," House explained to me one day, right out of the blue, and at first, I wasn't sure which _he_, we were talking about. The saddest thing about that sentence was that it was the first thing I had heard—besides the TV or the hum of the refrigerator anyway—in almost a month.

"Maybe he was planning to and just never got the chance," I offered, gently placing my hand on his forehead. "Honestly, I think it's a big jump from rape and kidnap, to cold blooded murder."

"It's supposed to be a big jump from cop to rapist, or from solider to child molester, or doctor to drug dealer…" Then he just sort of trailed off, looking up at me as if there was a thin blanket covering his eyes.

"Some ridiculous number or both men and women don't even report being raped, because they're scared nobody will believe them. Dead bodies, on the other end, well those tend to pile up. It's a sad world we live in where most living victims never get justice, or closure." Greg said something I couldn't hear, and then pushed himself a little closer. "I'm sorry I didn't catch that, Buddy?"

"There's no such thing. Closure, is just one of those stupid words, normal people use them to make yourselves feel better about—people like me," He grumbled.

"Well that's basically what I was trying to say. If Tritter had put a bullet in your heart, he could have gotten a lethal injection, especially with multiple victims. Hey, look at me, a minute, okay? Time for your meds," I explained, handing them over before he responded. The last few weeks, since our big breakthrough, he'd been more agitated, a nervous, so I had been giving him an extra dose about three times a day. "There you go, feeling' better already, right?"

He said, "Yeah," but his voice gave everything away. Greg was only trying to appease me, saying what he thought I wanted to hear, most likely because he was afraid I would get mad if he didn't.

"I would much rather hear the truth from you, than whatever you think I'm trying to get you to say. Anything you tell me would be fine. I love you no matter what. Let me know when those puppies start to kick in, and if we feel like talking, we can talk. If not, I'm just gonna hold you like usual."

"Wanna talk, if I can. Wanna give it a try. Guess I'm still confused about my dad. When I was little, sometimes—when he hit me—there was a reason. When he beat me, spanked me, threw my body against the wall, made me sleep outside, and whatever else—his _punishments_ always served a purpose. I'd screwed up, and he would dole out the necessary allotment of bruises. It wasn't right, hardly ever fair, but at least that stuff made sense. Was in college before I realized I didn't do anything to deserve the other stuff. But still…could never make it, make sense."

"No wonder you're obsessed with games, rules, puzzles, and making sure things stay where they belong."

"Don't forget fairness. Can't always do what's fair, but I can figure it out." He got quiet for a while, lacing his fingers together, lifting his arms up and down. "Medicine makes sense. Kid comes into the clinic, nausea, vomiting, tenderness and pain in the right sided belly pain, almost always his appendix. Even _my_ patients made sense…when they weren't lying to me."

"Your father did what he did because he was a very sick man, who couldn't control himself. I don't think he wanted to be a pedophile anymore than that kid of yours asked to have his appendix burst. The only difference is that he knew he had a problem and refused to do anything about it. He hurt you, basically destroyed your life, because he didn't want to admit he had a problem."

"I know."

"You were never at fault, no matter what you did. Could have set off a box of fireworks under his bed, and he still wouldn't have had a reason to slap you on the wrist. No kid, no adult, nobody deserves to be hit, and even the worst perverts in the world don't deserve to have the other thing done to them."

"I know!" he snapped, but didn't pull away. "I know, figured _that _one out all by myself. I remember his hands, rough; he had calluses, and—the sound of his belt swishing through the air. He always smelled like—I can still see it too. Seemed so big, so—I didn't—I was too scared to even…I tried so hard to be good, not get in trouble.

"Was just a stupid kid, and for years, I thought that if I could just behave well enough—I thought. I thought he might leave me alone. Was so scared, so small, so—but I always screwed up. I always got into trouble."

"I'm sure you've figured this out by now, but I think maybe your dad liked hurting you, like a sadist, and he took every chance he could get to beat the crap out of you."

"There's nothing in the world you could tell me that I don't already know, moron," he snorted, but he sort of squeezed my fingers like he wanted to hear more of what I had to say.

"I think he was-you know, from what I hear, hurting somebody, controlling them, and stuff; it makes some people feel really good, almost like a high. Maybe he got used to that sort of feeling and…"

"I never had a chance did I?" House asked, cutting me off, mid-sentence. "I was fucking born to be a nothing, a loser, addict, depressed, loser, freak."

"You do know there's no good way for me to respond to that, right? And you're not a loser, or a freak," I added, quickly, and then he sighed, nodding. "I think that we're all the product of both nature and nurture, but—uh—with the combination you've had…I don't. You're father really screwed up, and it's a miracle you're even alive."

"Why does, how come everything you say starts off with the words "I think?" Do you actually _know_ anything? This stuff is serious, and you haven't got a clue."

"You're right, partially right anyway. I don't have all the answers, and I won't tell you something if I don't know all the facts. Lying, or pretending that my intuition is anything more than that, you might get mad, or freaked out. I'm not gonna do those things. I'm not gonna hurt you, not now, not ever." House nodded. Closing his eyes, and yawning, his fingers pressed into his temples, massaging his head.

"This sucks," he admitted, refusing to say anything else for the rest of the day. We both fell asleep on the couch at about 9:45-10:00, his body tight, scared, stiff, and awkward, as he tried not to quiver, and I was crazy exhausted from running around, taking care of him all day. So when the phone rang, neither one of us heard it at first. The ringing wasn't even what woke me up. It was Greg, shifting around, fidgeting in my arms—no he _was_ shaking me—that brought me out of my dreams.

"Who the Hell would call us at this time of night?" I asked, slowly, groggily sitting up, pulling my tongue off the roof of my mouth. "Feel like I ate cotton. Hey, you alright Pal? You okay? What is it?"

"It's him," his voice whispered, and when he realized I didn't understand, pointed towards the phone. "He's coming back. He's gonna get me!" House was horrorstruck.

"I'll get it; make him go away, alright?" I asked, picking up the handset, slowly bringing it to my ear. A quick look at the caller ID showed that "Speed-dial #8," written as, _Mom and Him_, was calling. Before I could say a word, the person on the other end spoke.

"Greg, Sweetie, is everything okay? I've been calling for over an hour. Why didn't you pick up the phone?"

"Actually, it's Jimmy—James…Wilson. It's really late, and he's sleeping right now. The thing is he's been sick for a—few days, and he hasn't slept for a while. So, I really don't think…" My voice trailed off as, beside me, House smacked his forehead, and mouthed the word, "idiot," at me.

"Listen, James, it's important. I need to speak to my son, now. Tell him its okay. His father is not here. John and I have been having problems. We thought it would be best to share things with each other—turned out to be a bad idea—and he confessed to me. Tell Greg that I know what his father did—tell him I know everything."

"I'll tell him, but there's still a fairly good chance he won't be able to come and talk on the phone, even if I—he's not doing so good these days. There was an—incident. It's hard to explain."

"Why? What's wrong? What happened? Out of it? What does—why is he "out of it?" How could he be—what's wrong with my son?" she shouted, angry, and scared out of her mind. Not that I could blame her.

"I'm not so sure I should be doing this over the phone…"

"You had better answer me right now! You can not tell a mother that something has happened to her child and then not finish explaining it to her. Did he—does this have anything to do with what John did to him?"

"No, not really, yes, sort of…yes and no. Greg was attacked, about a year ago. This cop pulled him over—speed trap—and then took him to the station house, where he—beat Greg, fairly badly."

"Is that all he did? I don't mean that it wasn't bad enough, but I—I don't think that he would be…Greg had a breakdown, didn't he? That's what you're trying to avoid telling me, right? But if the cop hit him, that wouldn't—what happened to my son?" Blythe seemed to be on the verge of breaking down herself. I could hear her trying so hard to keep from crying, and just barely succeeding.

"I didn't want you to have to hear this stuff over the telephone. And Greg probably never wanted you to know, but yes. Exactly what you're thinking, the guy done this before, but he got caught, when he was hurting Greg. I'm gonna talk to him, and he might be able to talk for a minute or two, but uh—I think you should come out here and visit us, especially now that it's just you. I think it would be really good for him if the two of you spent some time together on a regular basis." As I spoke to his mom, I placed my hand on House's head, softly stroking his hair, looking down into his heavy-lidded, soft blue eyes, mouthing, "I love you," whenever I could.

"How bad is it?" she asked, her voice so soft it almost sounded like Greg's.

"Well the thing is, Greg has both good days and bad days and it depends on how things have been going, how much sleep he got the night before, whether or not there were any nightmares, what I say, how much pain he's in, when he last took his meds, who he's been in contact with, and about a million other factors."

"Would you just shut up and tell me how sick my son is?" she shouted, actually it was more of a desperate whisper than anything else.

"I'm sorry, I just—most days he's quiet, reserved, scared, but because of the injuries to his hand and leg, he can't really do a lot of things for himself. So, if he's having a bad day, all he can do is sit there, half paying attention to me or the television. On a good day, we talk, and he almost acts like himself, but even then—he's still hypersensitive. Most of the time, though, he's somewhere in-between. He might talk, but not a lot, or he'll try to communicate using hand gestures, or by writing things down, and when it's like that—if I talk to Greg—even if he doesn't say anything back, I can tell he's really listening/

I heard a loud sob from the phone, and then. "May I speak to him, please?"

"Yeah, I just wanna explain what's going on so he won't be—so he can talk to you—or try to talk."

"Okay."

"Hey, Pal, it's your mom on the phone, which you probably figured out by now. Uh—your—_he's_ not there; she says they're getting a divorce, and I don't know why, but he told her, what he did, and now she's really worried an wants to speak to you. I told her about your—that you can't—she knows about the cop too. DO you want me to put her on speaker?" House shook his head, and took the receiver with his right hand.

"Don't hate _you_. Never hated you…no, Mom, I didn't—I was so scared, and he said—he said he'd kill you if I told…can we not…I'm okay, really…well maybe not okay, but…no…I—yeah…should probably come here, we don't go out much. Um, maybe a while…Like Jimmy said, don't always—sometimes I can't, not—of course I wanna see you. Thanks. Bye, Mom. I love you too." Part of me was jealous to hear him say that to her. House never told me he loved me, before or after Tritter. Of course, as soon as I figured out I was feeling this way, I felt a hundred times more guilty than envious. "Bye," he whispered, handing the phone back to me.

"Hello?" I asked, almost certain Blythe had hung up already. She had not, and responded, by asking me how long I thought she should stay for. "Well, like I said, we have good days, and bad ones. So it would be a nice idea to plan on being here for a while, maybe a week and half, two weeks, if that's possible. I also think it would help him, if you were in his—our—life. I think he can use all the love and support he can get."

"Do you think Greg would be okay with me spending that much time with the two of you?"

"Yah, I do. He likes you. The only reason he never—the reason you haven't been able to see as much of him as you would like is because he didn't want to see---well anyway. He wanted to see you, but at the same time, he was too afraid to go anywhere near you, because of…because of—"

"Because I was still married to John. Tell him I'm sorry. Keep telling. I keep telling him until I can get there—and remind—I love him. Tell Greg that too. I can be in New Jersey tomorrow, if it's okay. Is that—I don't know how I'm supposed to react to all of this."

"It's alright. I'm really just figuring a lot of this stuff out as I go along. We both are. You won't be alone in that. Tomorrow would be great. Do you—I uh—it's after midnight, so you probably mean today, huh?"

"I can call you this fatherhood, when I know what's—when I have made my flight reservations. I don't think I've ever really traveled by myself before, not for a long time. I'll be glad to have the opportunity to really spend time with my son, though. Thank you for letting me speak to him."

"Thanks for calling us. This sort of thing is really helpful for him. He's—Greg likes knowing as much as he can about things, understanding stuff. It's one of the things that help him cope." House's mom gasped. "I', sorry that was insensitive. He's doing really well, all things considered, and having you around is going to be very helpful."

"But he won't ever be—normal, will he?"

"Nobody is ever normal."

"But he won't be happy. He won't be himself, right?" She asked, and I couldn't think of anything to say.

"I think you should come and see him before we have this conversation. He's still your son; he's still House—err, Greg—just quiet, and a little bit scared."

"He was always scared; I just never saw it before."

"You're right. Listen, he is gonna get better. Maybe not all the way, maybe not for a really long time, but it does gonna—we can make this work, you, and me, and Greg. We'll figure it out."

XX

By that afternoon, Blythe had booked herself an airplane flight, for the red-eye, decided to stay at our place. We were going to drive to the airport to pick her up later. House didn't say much all day, but I had a feeling that he was trying to preserve as much energy as he could for his mother. It seemed like he wanted to be strong for her., which meant that I had to sit around the apartment talking to myself for most of the day. For lunch I made him a Ruben, his favorite, heated up some French fries in the oven, which he just barely picked at. We watched _General Hospital_, and in the evening, before dinner, I baked a batch of cookies, even though Greg rolled his eyes at me, because there was nothing to actually _do_, and this made me feel useful. I wanted to make him happy. At diner, House just sort of pushed his food around on his plate, staring down at it strangely.

"Hey, you okay? Should I make something else? No? What's—what is it? You really gotta try and eat something, alright?" I asked, sitting down at the table and snuggling in close to him. "You want a cookie or some candy or something?"

"Just nervous, a little nervous, I guess," he murmured, rubbing his knee softly. "Haven't ever really been able to, you know—talk to her, or see her—without _him_ being around. I guess…was worried she might, not—I dunno." Then he went back to eating a little bit. Latter, Greg's mom called us right before getting on the plane, just to talk to him again, and say "I love you," once more before she saw him in person.

Honestly I didn't blame her for calling every five seconds. She was freaked out by what had happened, and worried about him. When House first told me about what his father had done, I was afraid to leave him alone for a whole week. We spent every waking moment together, and when he slept, I'd stay up, watching over him, worried and scared and wondering if he had any chance to ever be okay again. And yet, somehow, he was alright. Everything went back to the way they had been before he told me, for a while. After that, even before Tritter came into our lives, I tried to be extra careful with him, though.

We left for the airport early, so I'd be able to drive slowly and carefully, and to give a little extra time in case we had to stop. Luckily everything went as planned. House was quiet the whole drive up; while we were waiting, and when Blythe first came through the gate, saw him sitting in the wheelchair, sobbed, ran over to his side, and hugged him.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't sure how to explain about this over the phone. Still, I am sorry; I should have given you some sort of a warning."

"Is he—I—will he ever—what's going to—how badly was he hurt by this thing?"

"His right leg has—about six surgical pins in it, which means that…it was broken pretty badly. Even if he had been perfectly healthy beforehand—the bones aren't doing very well. He's in a lot of pain, more than before and then there's his left hand…but everything else healed pretty well, his jaw, ribs, shoulder."

"What did that man do to him?" she gasped, wrapping her arms around House's skinny body again. 'Hi there, Baby. It's alright now. Mommy's here. Mommy's here, now. It's okay."

"Hi. Mom," Greg said, straightening himself out, and lifting his head to look Blythe in the eyes, instead of staring at her feet. "I'm--glad--to-see. You. I don't—sorry. I haven't talked all day, was trying to—save my…wanted to talk to you. Wanted to be strong, but I—this is hard—sometimes it's really hard to talk, or—say what I'm thinking."

"Don't you worry about a thing. You've been through a lot, but I'm going to be in your life now, and I'm going to take good care of you," she promised, leaning gin to give him a gentle hug.

"Wilson already does that."

"Well then you'll have two people taking good care of you." Blythe pulled back a little, looking him over careful. "Is h ever going to get better?" she asked, turning towards me, with this question.

"No," I said honestly, and then added, "he'll never be normal, but we're gonna do whatever we can to make him as happy and as comfortable as possible." They both turned and gave me dirty looks, like I had just called one of them something horrible. "Maybe I shouldn't have put that so bluntly…"

"She's mad because you lied."

"I didn't lie. I didn't. The pain is permanent. He's probably lost all use of his right leg and left hand, but that doesn't mean he won't—it's pretty bad, but not an entirely hopeless situation."

"Don't do that," he snapped.

"See he can speak perfectly, just as long as he's arguing with me."

"Still scared, though," House added.

"You guys ready to go home?" I asked, carefully placing myself behind him and the chair. "Got any luggage?" was my second question, although it wasn't directed at him. After picking up his mother's bags the three of us moved to the car, and drove home. Blythe and Greg sat in the back, speaking (mostly her) quietly. I gazed through the rearview mirror a couple of times to check on him, but every time he met my eyes, even going as far as to smile once.

When we got home House and his mom talked for a while longer, but it was really late and we were all tired, so everyone went to bed quickly. He let me hold him, slept most of the way through the night, woke up just a minute or two before I did, and gave me another little smile when I handed his morning medications over. I got him ready for breakfast, which by the smell of it was already getting started by our guest.

"I think maybe ready to talk about what happened to me some more," Greg told us, looking up from his plate, a fork in his right hand, his left one trying to hold the plate still.

"Okay, whatever you want, that's what we'll do," I said, which was—pretty much—exactly what I always said in this sort of situation. When House wanted to tell me something, you can bet your ass I was going to listen. I just hoped his mom would agree with my way of doing things.

"Do you want to talk to me, or James?" she asked, seeming to follow my lead. Greg shrugged, but then seemed to change his mind and looked first to his mother and then at me. "Alright, Sweetie, just tell us whatever you want, and nothing more, okay?" He nodded, and then started to open his mouth to speak, with an expression on his face like he wanted—needed—to get everything just right.


	8. Bad Bad Man

"They shot a Western south of here

"They shot a Western south of here  
They had him cornered in a canyon  
And even his horse had disappeared  
They said it got run down by a bad, bad man  
You're not a good shot but I'm worse  
And there's so much where we ain't been yet  
So swing up on this little horse  
The only thing we'll hit is sunset," Josh Ritter

After five or six minutes of sitting there, and just staring down at his pancakes, House sighed, and slammed his right hand against the table top. I think Blythe and I were worried about _him_ more than anything else, and while the outburst was unexpected, our biggest concern was why he had done it. Greg's face was a mixture of the usual pain, anxiety, anger, and sadness as always, but there was more frustration than I expected. He was pissed off too, which was stemming from his frustration at not being able to communicate with me.

"You wanna talk to me, only you can't figure out how to do it? No. Sorry-you can't get started. Okay, is it better if I ask more questions and you answer them or should I just wait until you're ready?"

"I am ready, it's just difficult—to get. The right words. I know in my head, but…the thoughts, don't turn into words. It won't come out." Watching him struggle with this seemed so much worse than seeing him scared or in pain, because I had no idea how to help him here. Even if all I could do was give him the meds, at least those helped him cope, but as far as his difficulty communicating, all I could do was be patient with him. Not that patience made him feel any better. I think the talking problem was more difficult for me than everything else I'd seen him suffer through.

"I know how much you sued to hate it when I sat around questioning you endlessly, but would you be more able to talk to me if I take a more targeted approach at—okay I get it, you're saying no. You can stop shaking your head now. Don you remember the day that we sat on the couch and you were really trying to tell me stuff, but you weren't ready to speak yet, so you wrote down whatever you were trying to express?"

"No memory loss, of course I remember, jackass." Blythe had been straightening up around the room until he cursed. When this happened she spun around staring at him, not mad as much as shocked. "Sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what to write," he explained, pausing three times, thinking careful after each one. "Or how to—" Greg slammed his good hand on the table again.

"Alright, may I ask you a question? And don't say you just did." House nodded, his eyes never moving up from a square of floor tile under his chair. "Was there something specific you wanted to let me know—to let us know—or is this just a general discussion on how you've been hurt?"

"I don't know," he lied, quickly spitting the words out, turning his head away. "That night, well you—you read what I wrote about it…but it lasted for a long time…. actually, c-ca—can I write down something. Then you can read it and tell me stuff to make me feel better?"

"Of course," I promised. "Whatever you need, alright?" After we got him set up at the kitchen table, with his notebook, pens, a glass of milk and some cookies for a snack, I took House's mom into the den so that he could see us/get our attention if he needed anything, while also giving us the privacy to talk and him space to think. "I know how difficult it is, seeing Greg like this. I've been taking care of him for over a year like this, and I still wake up hopping that it was all just a bad nightmare. Now that he's starting to open up and come out of the fog things are a lot better though." She placed her hands over one of mine, cupping them momentarily, then thought better and hugged me.

"You are doing a wonderful job of taking care of him. It's almost like you can read his mind." Her voice was strong, firm, but also gentle and full of love. She had a slightly red tint to her eyes, like she had been crying earlier, then again, if I had a child who was as bad off as House had seemed, I'd probably be up all night crying too.

"I really, it took us a long time to get this way, and at first, well… I used to set an alarm on my watch to go off every couple of hours so I'd know when to give him his medications, make sure he went to the bathroom, ate, but after a while I stopped needing it. We got to the point where I just knew, instinctually when he was scared, or hungry, or in pain, and—I'm sorry. I don't know why I told you all of that. It's probably the last thing in the world you need to hear."

"No, I understand how you feel. You don't have anyone to talk to right now. I felt that way for years. John was always so distant, and cold. I don't know why I didn't realize what a horrible person he was before now. I can't believe I kept letting that happen."

"If people like that couldn't hide their problems so well, they'd never be allowed near kids. Someone would—stop them before they hurt anybody. It's the same thing with the guy who hurt him—he passed all the screenings and psychological tests. They let him become a cop. someone gave him a badge and a gun and he kidnapped and tortured people."

"But John was my husband. I remember when Greg was just a very little boy, and he and I were alone together. He used to get so frightened, especially at night, when it was dark, when I put him to bed. They went on these camping trips together, and my child came home shaking. He wet the bed, and I still didn't do anything. I had no idea…"

"He didn't want you to know. House—Greg is the most intelligent person I have ever met. If he wanted to hide an extra terrestrial in his stuffed animals and toys, he probably would have found a way."

"He was always the brightest—sweetest little boy. Greg is still amazing, bright—I didn't mean. Okay, so he didn't want me to find out, but why? I'm his mother. I could have done something." I hugged Blythe then, mainly because I needed one almost as badly as she did, and it seemed to be helping us both to talk to each other.

"I think he was ashamed, maybe a little scared, and he wanted to protect—I should be speculating about this. I really shouldn't because the BT—before Tritter, that's his name, before this happened he hated talking about those days. He almost never told me anything."

"He was constantly getting hurt, bruises, broken bones, that scar on his chest…I'm his mother and I had no idea what was happening to him! How could I miss such a serious problem?"

"A lot of parents don't realize what's happening to their children. Kids fall down. They climb trees. I once had a five-year-old come into the clinic with two broken writs that he got from dragging his tricycle up to the roof of the garage and drove it off, thinking it could fly like in the movies. There are lots of reasons to explain bruises and broken bones. People don't like to think that a parent is capable of harming a child the way John did. It's not natural human behavior. It's not natural behavior for any animal. There's no way you could have anticipated that he was going to do that…"

"But I could have seen the warning signs. I should have seen them," she cried, softly, looking towards the kitchen to make sure her son wasn't listening or watching us.

"Maybe you're right. Yu made a mistake, but that was a very long time ago. Greg needs you _now_, and this time you can actually do something. This time you can help him." Blythe turned away, wiping here eyes, then looked back at me, and nodded.

"Thank you. I think I was just so shocked last night, and this morning. I know you told me he was really scared and hurt on the phone, but it's so—I don't think I've ever seen him this…" She paused searching for a word that could accurately describe the horror's we'd been through. I hugged her again, speaking up because there really wasn't one.

"When he was brought to the hospital after he was attacked…I wasn't his emergency contact person, and so nobody told me what had happened until—by then everyone in the hospital knew. I heard it through gossip in the lunchroom. He had to have three surgeries that first week. He was on so much medication, and I thought that we—that I was going to lose him. Then, one day he opened his eyes and looked right at me, like he was saying, like having me there made him feel better. I knew it then. I knew he was still there, deep down inside, trapped in his mind. Some days, that knowledge is the only reason I keep doing this," I said, not to scare or upset her, but because I needed to tell someone and it would probably kill (or forever damage) Greg to hear that I wasn't actually any stronger than him. We talked for more than three hours, only taking breaks so we could hug House and give him his meds. Then he was finished writing, but it was time to watch General Hospital, and he didn't want to wait. "How about you watch while I read this, and then we'll have lunch and talk some more this afternoon? That sound good?" Greg nodded, his eyes nervously watching the black screen. "It's okay you've still got two minutes before the show starts."

"Stay with me?" I sat down right next to him on the sofa and he grabbed my arm, pulling it around his shoulder so that he could lean into my body. A few minutes later I looked over and noticed that there was a smile on his face. _This is nice,_ I thought, almost able to convince myself that things might be normal one day. _Maybe everything will be like it was, well better, but I think I can make him happy._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Greg's mom came by during one of the commercial breaks, patting her son on the head, then sitting beside us on the couch. For a moment he looked up at her, smiled, and then turned back to watching an ad for spray on hair. Because we had been snuggling so close together, I didn't feel it would be a good idea to read his journal entry right in front of him.

"How's my sweet, wonderful, amazing boy doing?" she asked, but House only shrugged. "Are you okay sweetheart?" Another shrug. "Does—is this what you were talking about?" she asked me worriedly.

"I think it's just the TV right now. He really likes this show, gets caught up in it. I'm pretty sure he's trying to save his—strength for talking to us. He wants you to see him at his best, doesn't want you to see that he's—" House smacked me, not all that hard, but still he hit me.

"Shut up! She doesn't need to hear, that. Tell her I'm fine." He ordered, looking and sounding more pathetic than usual, although—for the most part—I thought the reason he seemed so much worse was because he had been trying so hard to act like everything was okay, but wasn't pulling it off. Blythe wrapped her arms around her boy, pulling him in close.

"Now you listen to me, Greg," she explained, holding him as though he were much younger and smaller than he really was. "I have survived watching my husband go off to fight in a war, giving birth to an eleven-pound baby who decided that he needed to enter the world by mooning everyone, seeing doctors pump an entire bottle of aspirin out of my seven-year-old's belly, leaving my husband and running off to hide and protect my little boy, working so hard to separate myself form a man I thought to be a monster, and failing. I've had to make a bargain with a man who I both loved and hated to keep food in my baby's mouth, and a roof over his head.

"My little boy, my love, my life came close to dying four times that he told me about, and I have only now learned just how big of a bastard that my ex-husband was. Don't you worry about what I can and cannot handle. I'm the mommy, you're my child, and right now my baby is hurt and scared and he needs me more than anything in the world. I want to be here for you, but in order to do that, I need to know what's wrong, okay?" It was amazing the way House's mom had not only managed to sound both authoritative and 100 open, accepting and loving at the same time, but that she had made her son believe her. I don't know how many times I had tried to get him to open up to me or how often I'd tried to convince him that everything was okay, and had failed but here she was on her first day no less, helping him more than I could possibly imagine. You'd think that something like this might make me jealous, I know I thought it should, but I was just so glad to see the love of my life starting to make real break through that it no longer made a difference where they came from. "Okay?" she asked again, lifting his face to meet her own.

House's eyes, once vibrant neon blue were now dull, and listless, his face showed (most days) nothing even resembling a smile. His skin was pale except for the dark circles under his lids. On good days, I'd trim his facial hair as much as Greg allowed me, and on others, he put up so much of a fuss over changing his pajamas that I didn't bother. We'd both lost weight, although mine as less noticeable. In short he looked almost as bad as he felt, even now that things were starting to look up. House smiled at his mom, a little, pained smile, nodded, lowering his face into his shoulder. "Now James, please tell me how I—what do I—is he going to be…" Every time Blythe tried to express a thought, which entered her mind, she'd pause, consider it, and try again.

"Like I told you over the phone, it fluctuates from day to day. Sometimes he's practically catatonic, and once in a while Greg can be almost exactly like was before all of this happened, but mostly he's about halfway between the two. He talks, he doesn't talk. He writes down simplified responses to what I say, or he might make gestures to try and express himself. Sometimes he cant or won't eat for days, but I think that's because the sedatives upset his stomach, unfortunately, without them he has panic attacks. SO, uh—we just have to try and tough it out when he has trouble eating." Greg pinched me when I said that. "Stop it. She needs to know if you want her to help you." It took a few minutes of thinking everything over, but once the idea of having another person around to make him feel better sank in, he seemed to accept it.

"I-Tr—Tri—he came into the clinic at the hospital, and as soon as I saw him, I knew eh was gonna be one of those people. I knew he was dangerous. Could of left, and made Cameron, or Foreman, or Chase do my clinic duty. Then he would of left me alone, but I thought—thought I could stop him, make him pay. Tr—Tr—Tri—Damnit, just say the stupid word," he screamed at himself, beating his fist against the side of his head. I took his hands, gently lowering his arms, until he stopped struggling. "The cop touched me when I was examining him. Forgot about that, until this morning. I had to—he had dehydration from chewing nicotine gum and he had skin tearing, and—" It seemed a hundred times more painful for him to tell us the cop had what looked like a rash on his genitals than to explain the rest of it.

"It's okay," I whispered, brushing his hair back with my hand, kissing him near the top of hi head, by the ears, on the forehead, everywhere. "During the trial he said he came into the clinic because he thought he had an STD and that you refused to do the test…which he didn't need. So, he comes in, drops his pants and makes you examine him, then what happened?" When House lifted his face and looked at me I knew what he needed to hear so that he wouldn't feel like he was repeating everything that I already knew. "He left a lot of things out of his confession, the part about molesting you on the side of the room, and he—when he was talking about what happened in the exam room, I knew he wasn't being completely honest. Nobody knows about this, and they never will. I'm not going to tell."

"I can leave the room if you want, or I can make the same promise. I'm not going to tell anybody about this. It's your decision who hears what happened to you, and nobody else's." Blythe reached for her son's hand and the two of them gripped a hold of each other hanging on for dear life.

"Okay, Mommy, I mean—uh. I didn't just say that out loud did I? Tr—the cop put his hand on my leg, and squeezed, while he was talking to me. I panicked, and took a pill, got up to leave. He kicked my cane out from under me, and I fell, didn't get hurt but I was scared. I knew he would hurt me, so I got the guy first. Then Cuddy found out, and locked me in her office with the dick, but it was—he said, "I don't want to sue you." "Good." "I wanna beat the crap out of you," he said licking his lips. I wanted to say, _go away_, wanted to curl up in a ball at home and drink until everything went away, but I couldn't. So I pushed and pushed and fought and I left. When he pulled me over, at first I didn't realize who it was, but then I saw the guys face and I knew what was going to happen to me. Tried to get back on the bike and run away, go back to the hospital or something, but he grabbed me, he grabbed me, and then…not talking about that anymore. Already told you what happened then," he explained to me.

"Yes you did," I whispered, patting him on the back between his shoulder blades. "You did a good job, and I'm very, very proud of you. We're done fore the day—unless you want to talk more. This is difficult for you, I get that, and you're working extremely hard, doing great. I'm so proud. I love you so much," I said, unable to keep myself from babbling on and on like that.

"It's alright, James, I think he knows how you feel. He wouldn't let you anywhere near him if he didn't. You paused his show right—that means he can watch the program now, right? All right, you boys watch TV, and I'll make some lunch. Would you like a Ruben?" she asked, but he didn't respond. "Because of the TV again?"

"I think it's been a long day," I lied, well no, lie isn't really the right word. It _had_ been a long day, and he did push himself unusually hard, but for the most part this was how House acted now. "Sometimes he gets this way. The best thing we can do right now, is be there for him, and just act like he's responding to whatever we say, even if he doesn't. "Hey, buddy, what do you wanna eat?" House stared at the TV screen for what seemed like a long time, then turned and looked at me, that usual sad, scared expression on his face. He opened his mouth, paused, closed it, and then parted his lips again. This time he struggled, but did manage to speak.

"I—want. I—I—I—can I have, pizza?" he asked, half concerned, knowing full well that _I _would always say yes, but I think the poor guy wasn't sure whether or not his mother would allow it. Luckily she was very good at this, and did the right thing.

"Of course," she exclaimed, happily, smiling at him, and gently patting the top of his head. "You still like pepperoni and mushrooms?" He nodded, then went back to watching the show again. "What if I make some cupcakes while we wait for it to be delivered, you can help me frost them if you like." This got a big nod from Greg who looked at us both long enough to make sure we weren't trying to trick him, then he lay down, snuggle close to me, another small smile on his face.

_This is it,_ I thought. _We're really going to make it_.

"I like it here," he said. I don't think Id seen him this enthusiastic since long before Tritter ever came into our lives, and while it was actually sort of sad, it was also a good—a fantastic sign. The asshole cop took away any chance House had to be a normal, happy person. He tore my man in two, practically killed him, and nearly broke his spirit, but now, with his mother and me taking care of him, loving him, being there with him, he had a chance. With a lot of hard work and even more love, we might, I thought, be able to put the shattered pieces of Gregory House back together again.


	9. Ever After

House fell asleep watching General Hosptial, exaushted from the meds and our morning both physically, and psychologically

House fell asleep watching _General Hospital_, exhausted from the meds and our morning both physically, and psychologically. He was still out when the pizza arrived, so Blythe and I ate, watched over him, and talked to each other. Mostly, I think, I wanted to explain what was happening to her so she wouldn't be completely shocked. House's mom sat in a recliner near the sofa, and at one point, after we had put the left over pizza away, leaned over her son's face, and gently smoothed out his hair.

"I, uh—I should warn you about something. We had a—this, what he just did for us, talking like that, it's a big deal, opening up to us, sharing, writing in his journal, it's a lot. He has a hard time focusing for more than a few minutes, and he doesn't like to admit to these things. We might—he might—we might lose him for a few days. Usually after a break through, Greg will stop fighting to show me, us, how strong his is. I'm not trying to be mean, but he—it's painful to see him just laying there, staring into space, not talking, not looking at you, not doing anything unless I—or you—tell him to. It's gonna suck; and you need to prepare yourself for at least a couple of days of, not being able to talk to him…I, uh, I'm sorry."

"How is he going to be the rest of today?' she asked, looking over his thin, frail body. "I probably sound like a fool, asking all these questions. I just—Greg was never one of those happy, giggling children; he used to get so scared sometimes, and I never had any idea what was wrong. I tried to help, tried to get him to talk about it, but he always got really quiet, and seemed so ashamed. I always thought he felt guilty about being afraid. He was always so quiet and careful, and he—but never like this. Will he always be a—a zombie like this?" she asked, then quickly realized her mistake. "No, I didn't mean, he—I'm concerned about him, and he's so…no one should have to go through what he has, no parent should have to see their child like he is, either. You'll let me be a part of his life now, won't you?"

"Of course, we both will. Actually, he really likes having you around. He wanted to see you, be with you, talk to you, have a relationship with you. If anything I think he's scared you don't want to be around him because of his condition. He loves you, wants to have you take care of him. He stared talking and opening up to you after one day, like that," I said, snapping my fingers. "It took me a year to get him to say one word to me."

"If I had been there when he first woke up after his surgery, a year ago, he never would have—things would have been the same for me," she explained. "He was frightened. He's still frightened, still hurting. You did all of the hard work, getting him to understand that no one will ever hurt him again. All I did was show up and hug him."

I wanted to make sure Blythe understood that she had done much more than that, and would have spent hours trying to convince her of this, but Greg woke up, shortly after the conversation began, and I didn't get the chance.

XX

House's mom stayed in our apartment for three weeks, and even after she went home, they spoke on the phone nearly every day. A few months went by, but not very much changed. Some days he was quiet, others he spoke to us all day long. Once in a great while he would feel strong enough or brave enough to take fewer pills less often, but for the most part he was still scared out of his mind, and in more pain than he'd ever been in BT. He started eating more, right after his mother showed up, but didn't gain weight—at least he didn't lose any more. The nightmares were just as frequent, and most nights he fell asleep, holding onto to me tightly, and every morning I'd wake up to find him either asleep, wrapped around me, or already up, watching me like he needed something but was unable to ask for it.

On good days, we'd talk about the dreams, the flash-backs, panic-attacks, his childhood, the night Tritter attacked him, and anything else that came up, and it seemed to help. It seemed cathartic. On bad days I would hold him, and tell him everything was going to be okay, tell him how much I loved him, and that I would do anything to protect him.

Three months went by without a lot of progress, and no backsliding, and then we got the phone call. It was a Saturday morning, on the early side, and so the two of us were fast asleep in the big bed, his body curled around mine, him wrapped up in extra blankets (he got cold easily) me hugging my guy protectively. Then the telephone rang, waking us both up with a start. House looked at me sadly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"It's okay," I whispered, patting him in between the shoulder blades like an overgrown infant. "I'll tale care of whoever this is, alright? It's probably your mom, she always calls early." This seemed to satisfy him, and so I picked up the phone, noticing the caller ID said it was someone from PPTH. "Hello?"

"Is everything okay over there? Is House okay? Are you okay?" Allison Cameron's obsessively kind voice asked, sounding more frantic and a bit more confused than I was used to, but still much like her usual self.

"Yes, we're fine. We just—House and I were sleeping. It's Saturday and that's all. We were up late so no…you woke us up." Then I covered the receiver with my hand, to explain what was happening. "It's Cameron; it's fine. She probably wants to bring us some cookies." Greg laughed so hard I almost dropped the phone. "Not those kind, although I'm sure she'd agree to it if you asked." I winked, and went back to chatting with my former college. "So, what's up?"

"You need to turn your TV on to the local news, right now."

"What are you talking about," I asked, trying to cover up the sound of myself yawning.

"That guy who—attacked House, the cop. I think he's dead," she told us, her voice no different than if she'd just said, we should all go out for pizza. "It's all over the news. Some guy at the prison—the guys name is Tritter, right?"

"Well, yeah, but, hang on a second," I instructed her, trying to think, but feeling as though my brain just flew out of my ear, and was no in another dimension. "She says that—Tri-the cop is dead. I think it might be true. "House gripped onto my arm with both hands, using an incredible amount of strength. "Should I turn on the TV?"

Sure enough, the new was reporting that convinced rapist, and former detective Michael Tritter was found dead, with several stab wounds on his body this morning, during a routine bed check. His cellmate was—apparently—the uncle of one of the cops victims (the one who killed herself) Alan Boullet had, he claimed, gotten himself put into that cell specifically 'to kill the bastard that killed our sweet Katy.' "Thanks," I whispered into the phone, and then hung up. Katy Boullet had been a sixteen-year-old runaway who had left her parents house after a fight.

She was on the streets for one night, and was later caught shoplifting a sandwich and some chips from a mini-mart. Tritter just happened to be there at the time, lucky for him, unfortunately for Katy. He offered to "scare the girl straight," for the clerk, who agreed to not to press charges. The girl returned to her parent's home the next day, and never spoke a word about it to anyone. A few months after Tritter was caught, Katy killed herself, and her family sort of fell apart. The uncle admitted to holding up a liquor store, for a plea bargain that put him in the prison as, in his words once again, "The creep who murdered our little angel, so as I could make him pay for what he done."

House sat on the sofa, watching the news footage over and over, as the replayed the same story again and again. We saw footage of Tritter outside the courthouse, smiling like a mad man, clips of the different victims, each one somber and silent, the newscasters discussing the crimes, the victims, and that morning's story. We even made the national news. I tried to turn the show off once, concerned that it was going to make him worse, but Greg started to scream, and I had to put it back on. He let me sit next to him, and I wrapped my arms around his thin body, touching his hair, here and there, trying to gage his reaction, to see whether or not this was soothing him, but House was really out of it. He lay there, just staring at the screen, like he couldn't believe any of this was really happening. It was if someone had come in and seen the fractured pieces of his heart, mind, body, and spirit that we had found, sorted, and were trying to glue back together, and threw them against the wall. The man obviously thought he was doing a good thing, an eye for an eye, and all that crap, but what he had really done was take away our chance at closure, and hope. He hurt all of us, House, the other victims, their families, their friends, and even me.

Tritter never apologized, never tried to make restitution for what he had done. We never expected the guy to actually do it, but still… When somebody hurts as many people as he had, it's hard to believe that they can just die like a regular person. The fact that he was gone without having to make up or even be punished for his misdeeds was completely unfair. I only allowed house to watch the news all day because we were both in shock, and it seemed to make things worse when I tried to pull him away from the TV,

"This sucks," he whispered later that night, picking up a piece of my hair and brushing it out of my face. Then he kissed the top of my head "Why did that guy—why—why?" he begged, looking up at me with those glowing blue globes. I didn't know how to answer this, mainly because I didn't know why, nor did I think I ever would. There really wasn't any reason for this, not one that we hadn't already heard. Sometimes shitty things happen, almost always to people who don't really deserve it. I thought, eventually, Tritter's death would be a good thing, in House's mind and my own, but for now it was more complicated than that.

"Sometimes crap like this just happens... He was a very bad man, a monster really, and I guess what happened to him was his punishment. It's not like the guy deserves to be alive." Greg raised an eyebrow. "You don't feel the same way?" He shrugged his most common response to questions from anyone. _I dunno_. "Do you think you deserve what happened to you that night?" I asked, but he shrugged again. "You didn't, nobody deserves what you've been through."

"But Tri—Tri—Trit—the cop deserved to die?" He asked, pausing in between each word, his voice high in pitch, like a scared child. I nodded. But he didn't see it, or didn't care. "But not me? What's so different about him?" What House was really asking me was _what makes me any different from Tritter? Why did he serve what he got, but I didn't?_

"He's a bad man, an evil, sick, twisted son of a bitch who made everyone's life worse for having known him." I knew as soon as I said the words that Greg was going to say so am, I, but I didn't interrupt him. This was a new situation for him, and rather than figure out the way to react to it, he wanted to start an argument. _At least some things never change_, I thought. In all the time we'd known each other, this was how he got when things were scary, depressing, nerve-wracking, or painfully, because dealing with it was difficult. If, on the other hand, he could trick me into harming him, or yelling, then he could sulk, and I'd spend the rest of the day (maybe longer) trying to cheer him up, and most likely forget about what ever I had originally tried to make him deal with. I wasn't going to let him get away with this now, but at the same time, it didn't seem right to push a practically catatonic House over the edge, especially after we had come so far.

"Aren't I like that? Bad, sick man. Nobody likes me—nobody used to like me. These days get lots of pity, but before, I was like this, they just thought, what a jerk. That's how they saw me. Didn't make anybody's life good, just screwed them up, made them worse. If he deserved to die for how he was then I do too." I don't think House would have ever said something like this before Tritter entered our lives. He might have felt, and even believed parts of it, but he never would have admitted to it. Now, he did think that some of this as true, as a matter of fact I was fairly certain that he believed all of it, to some degree. I tried to touch his face, but Greg turned away again, watching the image on TV, a photo of me, pushing his wheelchair into the building. There was a caption under it, Gregory House, victim, and Dr. James Wilson, oncologist, Princeton- Plainsboro_._

"You are not evil, not now, not ever. You weren't sick or twisted, not like the cop was. You weren't the nicest person in the world, but…doesn't mean someone had the right to touch you. It's no different then when you were a kid. And there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of people who would have died, if you had not been their doctor. You save lives, people that nobody else could help. I don't think any of them would say they were worse off for your having come into their life. You are not like him; you were never like him. I'm not just saying that either. Would _I _spend time with you if you were the same as that guy?"

"Not the same, just similar," House muttered. "Mean, cruel, cold, and I never treated people good, never made nice." He was still staring at the TV set, now pictures of Katy, smaller and younger than she was at the time of the attack, a little red-headed girl, with pigtails, playing with a doll house, prom photos. Then they showed a picture of her uncle, a skuzzy looking guy, with greasy hair, and skinny, a cigarette between his lips, then more footage of Tritter in handcuffs, still smiling as he was pushed into a police cruiser.

"May I turn that off?" I asked, anticipating his answer to be something negative. Instead he nodded, and moved his face so he could look me straight in the eyes.

"You really mean what you said?"

"Absolutely, I mean it. Look, I know this sucks, I get it. I'm freaked out and upset about it too, just not as much as you, but maybe it's not such a bad thing that he's dead. Whatever you believe happens to people when they die, he can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt anybody ever again. It doesn't change what happened, but—I don't know. I thought that if I just talked long enough I'd come up with a point, but I guess I don't have one."

"Not fair," Greg repeated, pushing himself up into a sitting position, all the while never taking his eyes off of me. "Like he got away with it. No punishment, no pain, no nothing. He just got off. Stupid cop hurt people, killed a little girl, and only spent a few months in jail for it. I can't walk, never will, have nightmares every night, can't think, barely talk. The ones who didn't die, we won't get over this. We hurt all the time. We're scared, messed up. Tritter did this to us; he should have to suffer like we do." Greg took nearly ten minutes to get the words out, slamming his fist into his left thigh a couple of times, frustrated and angry.

"They said they found a lot of blood, and based on the position of the body, the killer's confession, and the blood evidence, they're guessing that he didn't—the stab wound wasn't instantly fatal. He probably bled out, which would have hurt, and depending on where and how deep the cut was, it could have taken a couple of hours to do it. But you are right, it's not fair, none of this is fair." House nodded, sighed, lay back down, and watched me, tiredly, for over an hour before falling into an uneasy sleep. I wish I could say that the day Tritter died was another big turning pot in our lives, but it wasn't. As much as I wanted the old BTH back, part of me knew he just didn't exist anymore.

He got better, bit by bit, moving at such a slow speed, no one except for Blythe and I noticed it, growing stronger, both physically and emotionally. His good days were still fairly rare, even five years after he was attacked, but the bad days were just as infrequent. Mostly he was somewhere in-between really good and really awful. Most days he spoke some, at e some, laughed some, interacted with me and his mom—when she called or came around—and took fewer pills than he had needed when I first brought him home from the hospital. He was never able to walk—not that it was possible, his leg was too badly dammed—but Greg regained a small amount of functional use in his shattered, left hand.

He had nightmares, quite often in fact, but now he was almost always able to talk about it and/ or take an extra pill, and go back to sleep after a bad dream, whereas before, it would keep him up for days. Blythe was good to her word, flying up to visit us so often that she actually ended up moving to Princeton, and buying a home five miles away from us. This situation was perfect for everyone, because as much as he liked her, it's difficult for any adult to share residence with their folks. He loved her and she loved him, though, and I really do give her a large amount of credited for most of his recovery. We even were able to go out for dinner or go for walks in the park, House pushing his chair alongside me. He was still far less talkative than he had once been, and even when he did speak his voice was soft, almost shy, or scared.

We kissed sometimes, usually closed-mouthed, but occasionally he felt up to making out, although this was pretty rare, and no matter what we did, it was his choice to start it. He was in control, and had the option to make me stop if he needed do, which he did, most of the time—not because it was hurting him, but more because he'd just had enough. I still remember the day we had our first real kissing session.

About a year after Tritter died, one, gorgeous April day, when the sun was shining, the grass and flowers, and new tree leafs popping up all over the place, we went to a park near our apartment. We took a bag lunch with us, and stopped under a big oak tree to rest and eat. I leaned over to get something out of the bag on the side of his chair, pills I think, when he pushed his lips against my own, kissing me gently on the mouth. The first time his mouth just barely brushed up against mine, and for a moment, I thought it had been an accident, until it happened again. House kissed me with more strength, his tongue quickly darting out, touching my mouth, and then—as if he had changed his mouth—going back behind his teeth.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked, pulling just far enough away so I could see his face, make sure I understood his emotions, see what he was really going for here. Because if this is another test, I'd—I don't wanna mess up everything we've worked so hard to get."

"I can do this. Been thinking about it for a week, but wasn't ready for this until today. Thought about saying something to get you to do it, but this seemed right, like a good moment." I stared into those soulful, blue pools for what seemed like an hour or two but couldn't have been more than ten minutes.

"Are you gonna be able to say the word no to me, or ask me to stop when you want—need—me to stop? Maybe we should have a—uh—like a safe word, except that I'm not going to be beating the crap out of you, unless you think stop is enough. I'm just—I know how annoying I'm being, but we both now that I need to check, because sometimes I think you are afraid of me a little. Not because I've actually done anything, but because I have the right equipment, and if I don't use it to hurt you, if I don't treat you like everyone else has, then it destroys your whole concept of humanity, and think that everybody's just out to get everybody else, hurt them, or take advantage of them."

"If I want to stop, I'll pull away and if you don't get the message, I'll pinch your nostrils shut. How does that work for you?" House was insistent, and his face, voice, and word choice all told me that he did really want it. So, I decided to give it a shot, and we kissed- mostly quick, closed-mouth little things, like a couple of twelve-year-olds who don't really understand what they are doing but go for it anyway. At one point Greg pushed his tongue past my lips, wrapping it around m own, and we made out for a bit. Then he pulled back, simultaneously reaching for my noise, but I took a step away, laughing just a little, because I knew he would have pinched me even if I had stopped instantly, a sort of mean, but funny sort of thing the old House would have done. Even he smiled, which was always a big deal (he never smiled, either before or post Tritter) but now it seemed like a miracle. Things were not always like that though. He still has his share of bad days, and still took fairly large amounts of pain killers, and anti-anxiety meds.

I wanted him to get better, stronger happier, healthier, but I was glad to see him that way, and would have been completely content to have my man that way. Almost six years have gone by since Dr. Gregory House was kidnapped and nearly killed by detective Michael Tritter, and he had evolved from a fragile shell of a man, into a slightly better off person. He seemed like a whole new human being, but was still far from whole. Fairy tale endings don't exist, but House proved everyone wrong. They told me he'd never speak, that he was gone and I might as well put him in an institution, because there was nothing anyone could do for the guy. I took Greg to both shrinks, not for therapy, but to show them what morons they had been, and to rub their faces in the fact that I had accomplished what each one said nobody ever could. He was and always will be far from normal, but I didn't and don't mind though. I think even he is getting close to the point where he won't mind if he never gets any better. I feel like I wouldn't mind if he stays this way for the rest of his life. We have each other, and his mother, and the three of us have found our place in this world. We carved ourselves out a little ledge, a safe place to live as close to happily ever after as you can ever get.


	10. Back In The Sunsine

AN: probably the last chapter of this particular story, although I was thinking about doing a sequel. Have to wait and see if the mood strikes me.

"Take my blessings with you when you go,  
I don't wanna know no more.  
Head to toe, from top to bottom I've been kicked around,  
Don't wanna be kicked around no more," Paul McCartney

"Are you sure about this?" I asked, setting the table for breakfast. True, House had brought up the idea before, but he had never really been serious about it. I wasn't sure if this would be another one of those times, or if he actually wanted it. I sat down beside him, handing over his plate, eggs, toast, and bacon, all set up so he wouldn't have to use his hands too much. "Because this is huge, and you aren't usually so good with change."

"I am scared, and I don't know if it's gonna be okay, but I want to give it a try. So, I dunno. Guess I'm not sure," he admitted, stabbing his fork into the pile of hash browns on my plate. "Couldn't help myself."

"It's alright. Here, you want some more?" I asked, lifting my plate to push some potatoes onto his. "It's just that you haven't been to work, you haven't practiced medicine in years."

"What, you think I forgot stuff?" he teased. I smiled a little, reaching over and patting his hand gentle. This was not the best place in the world for us. If I wasn't careful, I could upset or hurt him, and possibly undo much of the progress we had made since that terrible night.

"No, I'm sure you're just as smart as you always were, but I think that you have been through a lot. You have the most severe case of post traumatic stress disorder that I've ever seen. Three days ago—you went into this, state, I had to sedate you, way more than usual, because this song came on the radio that—"

"_He _was humming that stupid song the whole time I—the whole time he was—the whole time…" _I didn't know that, and now I feel like a jackass, thanks for the heads up._ "You can—know you sometimes worry about touching me, but most of the time when you wanna do, whatever, I'm actually okay with I, and if I'm not, feel like I can say so." I wrapped my arms around his body, and rubbing and patting his back, and shoulders.

"I am sorry, but I didn't know. I understand that stuff is going to set you off and—sometimes you do need to take a break, but medicine—it's intense, especially your cases. You've been yelled at, hit, called names, and if any of those things were to happen now." Greg interrupted me.

"I barely ever actually talked to paitents before. I can do less now, be like the Wizard of Oz, man behind he curtain sort of thing. I like hanging out with you, Jimmy. I like our life. It's not that I feel like I'm missing…I just. Tritter took away everything I my life. I couldn't talk, never gonna walk, or be able to us my hand, freak out of stupid stuff, have the dreams, and flashbacks, and pain—a whole lot of pain actually. I almost never leave the apartments, some nights can't even change out of my clothes, and I couldn't work. You try really hard to make my life as normal as possible, but it's not." I had gotten used to talking with him, and knew when he was finished, and when he just needed to take a moment to collect himself, breathe, cam down, whatever. This was the second of the two. We were finished eating, ad I stood up, started to clear the table, and house pulled away from the table, picking up his plate in one hand, and then rolling to the sink to "help" with the dishes. I washed and dried, without saying a word. "Maybe I'll only last one case, maybe a day, or an hour, but I wanna give it a try. If—might make me feel good, especially if I can go back." I was very prod of him. He stated his case excellently. E knew what he wanted, understood the consequences, had planned out the contingencies, and knew that perhaps even if he got his way, things wouldn't work out. Greg claimed that he didn't know how sure he was about going back to work, but I think he was really excited aobut something for the first time since Tritter had kidnapped, assaulted, and beat the life out of him.

"Alright, I'll go call Cuddy, see what we can do about it, okay?" I asked, walking over to the phone. "You gonna listen in on our call, or do you trust me to do this on my own. He shrugged, looking away. _ I don't care_ "Hey come here. You've been trough a lot and— I know what I just said, but I don't wanna..."

"Hafta try. Still know everything that I knew before, and I can do my job!"

"I know you can. _You _aren't the person I'm worried about. I know I can believe in you, you're capable of just about anything, but I don't trust the world to be nice to you, Greg, and that scares me."

"I don't care about any of that crap."

"Since you were released from the hospital, your mom and I are the only people you've had any contact with, and we walk around on eggshells to make sure that…"

"Shut up! I get it. You're scared I'm gonna freak out and stop talking again, or that some idiot might yell at me and I won't be able to handle it. You're right. It is a possibility. I could end up a whole lot worse than before, but I want this. Maybe I can do this, maybe I can't, haven't got a fucking clue, but I want something for the first time since the—thing."

"If this is what you want, then I guess you won't be happy unless I let you try, huh?" I said, jokingly.

"Dunno if I'm gonna be _happy_, but I might—I could—I think—please, Jimmy?" he begged, eyes sad, and a little scared looking. I sat down on the sofa, helped him climb up beside me, put my arm around his shoulder, and kissed his hair. "S?"

"I'm picking up the phone and dialing Cuddy's office right now. Um, it might take a while, so I'm gonna put your pills right here, so if you need them, you can just grab 'em, and I'm loosening the lid, so you can get it open,." He didn't respond, except to pop a painkiller in his mouth, and chew on it. The phone rang three times before Lisa picked up, between she did her voice was frenzied.

"James? Wilson? What's going on? I something wrong with House? Is he sick again? Is he hurt? Is he…you need to bring hi in, right? That's what this is all about. He's—do you need an ambulance, or…?"

"Lisa, everything is fine," I explained. "Actually, Greg is doing fantastically. He wants to come back to work, at least part time anyway. Like, maybe on a case to case basis, only when you really need him. There's no reason to drag us out of the apartment for clinic duty. I can come back too, but I've gotta be even more flexible than him, in case Greg needs me."

"But he's—I mean, I uh…how exactly is he going to. I don't mean to be rude, but, it's been a while since I last heard from you guys. Back then, he wasn't talking at all. He must have made some huge strides since then I mean, would you—can he…"

"Yeah, he's fantastic, all better now," I snapped, and spit out rudely. "Some days, he's almost himself, some days he's the way he was when you saw him. He can't have contact with the paitents, certain thing set him off, pain, being touched the wrong way, raised voices…" She cut me off, which I suppose was only fair as I'd done the same thing to her a couple of times.

"Sounds like maybe he shouldn't be coming back to work just yet," she tried to say gently. _Well, that's actually what I think, but he wants it. I tried to talk the guy out of it, but you know how he gets_.

"Look, if you're not interested, we can always find another hospital, people who won't question our every move," I told her, and even tough we both knew it was a lie, it worked. Cuddy agreed, and promised to call us the next time she had a case for House.

XXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

About a week after we made our little call, Cuddy responded, phoning us up, one Tuesday morning—luckily we were already awake—to tell us that we had a paitent, and could we please be at the hospital at our earliest convince? I got Greg to talk a quick shower, and helped him dress in jeans, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, with a nice over-shirt on top, and ten his sneakers. We go into the car, drove to work, parked in his old spot—when either never filled it, or got the other cripple to vacate the space for a few days, climbed out, walked into the building, and were greeted at the front door by our boss. She opened her mouth to speak, but he grabbed the file, taking it away from her.

"Don't get all mushy and stuff. I look like crap," he explained, thumbing through the thing. "Hmm." _Is that a good hmm or a bad hmm_, I wondered. "It's a kid," he told me. "My first case back, you make me—a kid?"

"Cameron, Chase, and Foreman are all stumped. We wouldn't have brought you, except that they never would have gotten it. We had to..." He interrupted her by rolling away in is chair.

"I gotta go," I exclaimed, running over to catch up with the guy. "What's going on?" I asked. "What? Don't make that face. Cancer is one of your first choices, in almost every case." When we got to his office, Cameron raced over, opened the door, and leaned in to hug the guy.

"You do realize that I can see right down your blouse, especially from this angle. Kind of digging the chair for the first time, ever. Okay, most people let go about now." She smiled, standing up, and wiping her face gently. Chase walked up to us, and held is hand out awkwardly. "Anyone else here give a crap aobut the dying seven-year-old?" he asked, tossing the file onto the table. "You guys search the home? Find anything good?"

"Yes, and no," Foreman offered. _Same old, same old, Greg'll like that_. He was trying really hard, working to make them all think that he was no different than before. "Could be auto immune," he suggested. House mocked is idea, and told them what he was thinking, then sent the team out to run tests. It had been more than two hours since we'd shown up at the hospital when I walked up to his side, and sat down next to him.

"How you holding up?" I asked, reaching into my pocket for his meds. "You need something? Which one?" He shrugged. "If you're okay to go without, that's fine too. I just…I don't know." House smiled, slightly, and elbowed me in the chest. "Hey, cut that that out!" I pushed him back.

"You, hit me?" He looked completely shocked, like a little kid, or a whipped puppy. I didn't know what to say. I reached out to touch his hand as gently as I possibly could. _Crap_, I thought. _I can't believe I screwed up so badly._

"I am so, so, so, so sorry. I can't believe I just did that. I am so sorry."

"Damnit! We were almost back to normal for about thirty seconds, and ten you went back to acting like I'm a porcelain doll," He had been smiling, but once he said this, he got that _I know the answer_ look on his face. "I am, aren't I?"

"No, but for a moment I forgot, and then you looked at me like a scared, terrified child, and asked why I hit you. I guess, I felt like a monster."

"I didn't say, 'why'd you hit me?' I said, 'you hit me.' I was kind of surprised. You always act all…like you're my foster dad or something, and it makes me miss the way we used to be, not everything, of course, but—wouldn't mind…actually, I'm not sure what I want. Think this is the most I've talked since the last time I was in this office."

"I sort of like the fact that you don't constantly interrupt or tell me how stupid I am, but at the same time, conversation is nice too, and if I ever do anything to make you uncomfortable, or of you want to do something, or to not do something."

"I'm not five, don't always need you to tell me—well I think I just said—hang on, Cameron's coming back. Probably wants to say how much she loves me. Maybe—if you wanna go out sometime, maybe she can baby-sit." I wasn't completely sure if he was serious, and so I didn't respond. Alison reentered the office, and stood staring at us for a long time, just sort of staring at him. "If—thinking about another hug, it's, okay with me." House was fading, and trying even harder than before to hide it by being rude, so she'd leave.

"Can you make this quick?" I asked, running my hand over my head softly "This is sort of a lot for one day. He's going to need to take is 12:00 meds pretty soon, maybe even takes some time to relax. He didn't want me to tell you that, but if I let him do only what he wants, and none of what he doesn't, he'll starve to death, but be two stoned to care." Greg grunted.

"It's amazing. I mean, you're amazing," she told him, without moving at all. "I came to see you once, when you were still really bad off. Wilson was talking to you, telling you—well explaining everything. Then his watch alarm went off, and he gave you a shot. I think he was doing everything, even the stuff a nurse could of handled. Everyone kept saying you'd never get any better, but I saw—he did something, and you looked right at him, like you wanted to say thank you, but couldn't/ Right hen, I knew that things were going to get better, sort of, eventually, but I never thought you would come back to work . This is nothing short of a miracle."

"I know, he said, quietly, looking away. "Is that all?" She did hug him again, a nice, gentle, careful ting, and he sat still, looking off in another direction. The rest of the day went by pretty quickly. House's initial instincts about the case were correct. He saw something they didn't, and quickly realized that the kid was suffering from some rare disease that the three of them forgot about fifteen minutes after they learned it existed. Chase patted him on the shoulder, gently, Cameron hugged him a third time, and Foreman stood about five feet away form him, said, 'thanks,' and 'good job,' but didn't actually touch the guy. Then Buddy came by, and told us both how fantastic it all was, tanked Greg for helping out and held out her hand for him to shake, then pulled away a little, and finally gave him an awkward half hug thing.

We went home, and curled up on the couch together, where I gave the guy a couple extra Oxys—he was complaining about his leg—and we watched TV, while he relaxed, and unwound from the day. I wanted to talk about what had happened. I knew he was tired, sad (as always) and possible a little afraid. He needed to discuss the day, decide if it had been too much, or if he could handle doing this again, and if went with the latter, how often would he work. Could he actually come in for clinic duty? Was he really that well off? We were going to be able to move forward in our relationship? Sex was almost certainly out of the question, but we had gone from my only touching him when it was a necessity, to my hold him, to him kissing me with his mouth closed, to us making out, and then today I elbowed him, and he was okay with it. Maybe we could mess around, roughhouse a little, tickle, pinch, God only knows what together I wanted—no needed—to know what was going to happen, how the two of us should move forward, if we should move forward. Things had been the same for so long that even the smallest change felt like moving a mountain, and this, well this wasn't small. There were a million questions I wanted to talk to him, so many things I had to know, and understand, but I couldn't. I wanted to just start talking and talking and talking until we had everything figured out, until I knew where we were exactly, but knew he wasn't ready yet. Greg was emotionally and physically exhausted, and if I pushed him even a tiny bit too hard, it would be a giant step backwards. I just couldn't risk it.

He was pretty much silent the rest of the evening, and slept on the sofa—despite my objections—on and off for about five hours. It was significantly less time than he usually got, even though he was more tired than usual, but House ad about the same amount of nightmares. I think it was just over stimulating, going back to work again. The next day was about what I'd come to expect from him. He was mostly quiet, cautious, but his pain and anxiety levels weren't terrible. We didn't really talk about the case, or Cameron, Case, Cuddy, or even Foremen, except when I brought up the hugs—more as a joke than anything else—and he responded by shrugging and giving me a look.

"If you don't wanna talk about it, we don't have to, but...come on, Cameron hugged you. You could see down her shirt!" He shrugged again. "Okay," I answered, kissing the top of his head. "I get it; you've been through so much crap, sexually, that it's confusing as Hell. You're scared and don't know what to think when they touched you…" I paused trying to figure out what exactly I should say next.

"Stop," he ordered, grabbing my hand and squeezing, hard. I nodded, and that was all either of us said about it that day. The next day he was a little more open, a little more talkative interested in what I was doing, what I was talking about, everything, and when I tried to bring up his day at work, he actually had something to say about it.

"I'm not sure," he said, in answer to my question, _are you going to go back again_? "Guess we're gonna hafta wait and see if they need me." I smiled, and gave him an extremely gentle shove. We both knew they could use him on every case, but would only call if it was an emergency. Whether e decided to go in, however, was still up for grabs.

"Did you like—well maybe _like _wouldn't be the right word; did you feel good getting he answer, solving a puzzle, knowing that you were still needed?" He nodded. "Did you—were you scared, going back to the place where Tritter targeted you?" He shrugged. "Are you gonna say anything else today?"

"Maybe," He said, turning away from, looking over at the blackened TV screen. I let him watch half an hour of some random poker tournament before continuing. If there was one thing I had learned after seven years of dealing with the guy and his post-Tritter, PTSD it was that when he needed a break, you gave it to him, regardless of what was happening at the time.

"Okay, are we feeling better now?" I asked, touching his hair. Greg didn't say yes or no, he didn't shake or nod his head. He just made this face, one that I could read as clear as several of his other expressions. "Good."

"I wanna go back to work. Not every day, or every week, or any regular sort of thing. Just want—sometimes. Sort of felt better having you around. Made it—I dunno, safer. Sort of. Plus...if I can't say what I want you can help me explain it to them." I nodded, moving him into the chair.

"Do you want t go eat lunch?" I asked, already fully aware of what his answer was going to be. _He'll say, 'of course, its lunch time,' and I'll ask what he wants to eat, and he'll reply, 'its Wednesday. We always have sloppy Joes on Wednesdays._ I knew all of this, but I went through the motions anyway. He liked to feel as if he had control over his life, even if the control was all wrapped up in his routine, and following it.

At lunch he sat next to me—as always—and we mostly talked about the case, and how smart he was. I told him what a good job he had done, how wonderful he was doing, etc, etc.

"I was a little scared, being there, which is why didn't talk yesterday, why I was so quiet, why I was so fussy. Maybe we can…." He sighed. "On the meds, my thinking can get a little fuzzy, and I'm not really sure. I wanted to say something, just can't remember what it was exactly."

"That's fine, really, I understand, believe me. I really do, but…I guess. You're getting so much stronger. Sometimes it—sometimes I wonder what you're going to feel up to next."

"Not having sex with you, least, not anytime soon. I'm not. Wish I was stronger, wish I was better, wish a lot of things, but. Just not…there yet. I'm sorry."

"I know that, House, and that's to be expected. I'm perfectly fine with not having sex right now, or ever. I'm fine wit everything. I'm not pushing you. I won't ever make you do—"

"I know!" Before Tritter our biggest fights were over my trying to pull Greg out of his shell, or making him talk aobut his feelings, things he had done that I felt he shouldn't have, his taking too many pills, and drinking too much—an attempt to dilute the pain and nightmares which were haunting him at the time—but now…

Right after Tritter, and up until fairly recently—come to think of it—we never really fought. If he was in pain, he got a pill, if he was upset, or anxious, or scared, he got another. IF he wanted to talk; we talked, if he didn't, well, you get the picture. I knew I was being over protective, and for all intensive purposes, I was shoving him back into the same shell I'd spent twenty odd years trying to drag him out of. Only now, I was trying to fit myself into the safe lace with him, so he wouldn't have to be alone.

As much as I wanted things to go back to the way they once were, he anted it a million times more. Up until tat moment, I'd just never realized what was going on. By constantly coddling, and being nice to him. I was making it impossible for House to feel like himself.

"You want me to lecture, or yell at you?" I asked, my mind suddenly filled with millions of thoughts, and ideas. Greg shrugged. Wrong answer. "Okay, give me a minute. I think I'm starting to figure this out. You're a lot smarter than me."

"Don't _want_ lectures, never need to be yelled at, but sometimes—being—sometimes don't talk even though I could. I feel okay, but you offer me Oxy, and I take it, 'cuz it hurts, but maybe not as bad as to really need them. You let me get way with just about anything.

"This is difficult for me. I don't know when I should pus, and try to get you to do something, or when to just leave thins alone," I admitted. "Maybe we can—see, it's just no that simple. I can't push you constantly; you'll lose it, and be worse than before. Right now you actually seem to trust me."

"And you're just as afraid of loosing my trust as I am of—you know…" _That's what I'm worried about_. "You're right; maybe it's not so bad this way. You take good care of me, and I never hafta do anything I don't want to."

"If that's what you want right now then—no, this is the same trap we keep falling into. Why don't we leave it up to you, everything?" He gave me a weird look. _What the Hell are you talking about_? "If I'm not, if you want me to push you—or if I let you get away with something you think you shouldn't, just tell me. I won't get mad. I won't hurt you, or—anything."

"I know. You never get mad, or yell, or hit, or hurt me, or anything. Not afraid, because I think you're gonna do anything. It's not a rational fear. Shouldn't still be…" I didn't let him finish the sentence, but instead wrapped my arms around his shoulders tightly. "Don't say 'you're allowed to be scared, or that it's only natural after what Tr—Tri—he did to me."

"You had a complete psychological breakdown, Greg. We both know why, we also know you were perfectly entitled, and that things are never going back to how they were, but you. We can't—you—I'm sorry. You don't want to hear this. I'll shut up now." Greg smiled weakly, and then sighed.

"Maybe a gentle reminder once in a while might help me remember better. It sucks. I wake up every morning; feel the pain in my hand, and my leg, and my fingers, and my side, and well—everywhere. Some days I think I'm still locked in the interrogation room. With my eyes closed, don't always know who's lying next to me."

"If you want I can wear a nameplate, or collar and tags, or something," I suggested, stupidly, feeling completely and utterly useless, and not for the first time. He nodded, then looked away. "There's nothing I can do about that one, is there?" He didn't need to reply, and as such said nothing. "Is there anything I'm not already doing that might help you?" Another no. We had to take another break. Only now, instead of multiple thoughts running through my mind there was just one. _So where are we now?_ House watched me carefully, studying my face.

"I'm not sure, but I don't think we're in the same place we were two days ago. I feel different. I think it means we might be different."

"It's okay; I think I'm going to like this. I mean, of course, I'm happy with things the way they are now but I would have said the same thing when you couldn't talk, and before we started sleeping in the same bed every night, or before you kissed me, and before we made out for the first time. I'm happy with just about anything as long s you are safe, and healthy, and okay, but the better you get, the better I feel."

"It's okay to be happy; you should be happy, 'cuz at first, when I started to come out of the fog, but wasn't able to talk to you, I didn't know how to feel. So, I'd look at you, and was thinking, _how's Jimmy doing? What's he feeling? _ That's how I knew how to react. Sometimes I still hafta…sometimes I still don't think I know anything." I kissed the top of his head. I thought about telling him that everything would be okay, but it wouldn't, and the lie would only make him trust me less. I thought about saying a lot of stuff, only none of it seemed for important or helpful. So I just lay on the sofa for a few more hours, listening to the gentle hum of the heater turning on and off, and the soft sound of him breathing. He actually seemed okay with everything—for the most part—and the two of us sat still, nice and quiet, and I held him in my arms, until a few hours later, e took out his journal and wrote in it for a while. Then we went to bed together, and I fell asleep thinking about the future.


	11. Love

House awoke several hours later, and screamed. I was instantly conscious, terrified that I'd done something in my sleep and accidentally hurt him, but it didn't take long for me to figure it out. He wasn't reacting to anything in the real world. _Bad dream, _I thought, quickly, and reached over to the bedside table for his emergency, middle of the night, pills. He knocked them out of my hands, looking at me furiously.

"Okay, the last time you did that, I woke up with a pill stuck to my cheek, and I didn't notice it until after I had covered it with shaving cream and my razor knocked it into the sink." He didn't say a word. _Shit, _I thought. He was back to not talking. "Sorry, I shouldn't yell at you. Um—but we gotta have a code for when you can't talk so I can know if want me to stop doing something, without throwing a bunch of pills on the floor, okay?" Greg sighed, looking down and away. "You wanna tell me about the nightmare?" Nothing. I switched a light on, and picked through the covers for the lost pills. I watched him carefully, and touched his hair softly, as a quick test to see if he was alright for physical contact. He let me hold him, and we lay in the half-lit room, him watching the shadows on the wall across from him, me watching his chest rise and fall.

I wanted to tell him I loved him. I wanted to tell him it was going to be okay. I wanted to tell him that the monster was gone, forever and ever and ever, and could no longer hurt him. I wanted to order him to tell me about the dream, the way I would have before all of this started. I wanted to break down and cry and cry and cry, and have someone hold, love, and protect me for once. I wanted to take all of the pain and the fear out of his body and put it into somebody who deserved to suffer, like the bastard who did this to us. I wanted to do a million different things but was physically or psychologically incapable o some and wouldn't put him through the rest. An hour passed, two, maybe even three or four. We could have been lying there for two years and the only way I would of known was because I'd have a beard down to my belly button. Finally he turned himself around, part way and traced my jaw line with his finger.

"I think I'm ready to talk about the dream," he explained, and then quickly added, "I don't know why this is bothering me so much. It's stupid. I had—it's not even possible. Tri—Tri—_he's _dead, and buried, and rotting to nothing, albeit slowly 'cuz of all the chemicals the mortician probably pumped into his dead, bloated corpse, but anyway, he can't hurt me anymore. I know we've had this conversation a million times, but it doesn't help. I shouldn't be this scared. Not now, not after seven years have passed. I had to accept my physical limitations, again, but I did it. I came to terms with never being able to walk or drive a car, or play guitar or piano again, but I can't get over the—I don't even know what's wrong with me!" He sighed, pressed his face into my shoulder and paused.

"Fear doesn't work like that. Logically speaking, your—okay the pain analogy is a bad one. Um…I don't know how to explain it, but emotions don't just go away because some time has passed," I told him. "You can't make that fear go away, you can't cure it, or yell at it, or lecture it, or pump it full of antibiotics or steroids, or anything else. Sorry, Pal." He rolled his eyes, and I pressed my lips against his forehead. "You can talk to me, or a therapist—okay, okay, forget I mentioned that one, just stop looking at me like I'm—or I can try to help you to combine soothing sounds, imagines, and …you think this is complete crap, don't you?"

"I always have, not really sure what's changed to make you think otherwise, but…yeah, I do. You stupid, moron," he spat, tiredly. A few more minutes passed. I sighed, and told myself to stop. _You can't get mad at him, _I thought. _He won't respond well. _"In the dream, you were taking me to this movie theater, and I was okay. I could walk. I was—well you know, like I was before _that_ night. I went to find us seats, while you got popcorn or something. Someone called out, 'Hey, look, it's Dr. House.' Only, I didn't recognize their voice. So I turned around, and there he was, right in the front row. I practically jumped out of my skin, and that bastard just sat there, smiling. I looked at him, like a terrified little boy, and he said, 'It's a good thing I didn't run into you last night, when you were carrying those loose pills in the pockets of that gorgeous grey sweatshirt.' 'You've been following me,' I realized slowly, stupidly, but by then it was too late. I could of run away before, but not anymore. Still, even though I knew I was never gonna get away, I raced out to the lobby, grab your arm, and you look at me all sweet, and nice, and you said, 'what's wrong.' I begged you to get me out of there, and you did but then… When we were in the parking lot, he reached out, and pulled me into this dark alley and Tri-Tri—Damnit why can't I say his fucking name? The cop ripped off my clothes and knocked me to the ground. I tried to call out for help, but my voice just came out like a little mouse squeak. He climbed on top of me, and I was cry, and I kept trying to scream for help, 'Jimmy,' I pleaded, but you couldn't find me. I heard you looking for me, calling out my name, but you couldn't—you didn't—nobody came to rescue me." By the end of the story, he was sobbing into my shoulder, and I could barely hear what he was saying. I rubbed his back, and whispered, _it's okay_; _you're safe now. He can't hurt you anymore, _but—as always—it didn't seem to help. I sighed, patting him some more, and reached for the pills again. House shook his head.

"I want you to take at least one. It's your choice, which you want, but they'll help you calm down, and—if you want—get back to sleep. If you wanna stay up all night I'm fine with that too. God knows I'm not getting back to sleep."

"Do you stay up all night every night when I'm not doing so good," he asked, touching my face again, and then running his fingers through my hair. "I think you look better with longer hair, never really noticed it before."

"Well, you have been kind of busy, what with spending four years as a vegetable, and all. But I'm glad I finally fit into your hectic schedule," I taunted, and for a fraction of a second worried I'd done something unforgivable.

"Deflecting, huh? And here I thought that was my specialty," he snarked back. I was still smiling, still grateful to have him back, smiling, (occasionally) telling jokes, (rarely) and looking at me like he knew I was actually there.

"Yes, I do," I told him, and then felt the need to defend my actions. "You don't sleep very well, and if I don't…I've woken up and found you lying completely still, too scared to wake me up, too scared to ask for your meds, too scared to tell me you had a bad dream. There's nothing wrong with being like that, but until you're a lot stronger, I don't see myself relaxing enough to leave you alone when things aren't going so well. I'm barely okay to sleep when you're having a good day." He laughed.

"You're pathetic." House pressed his mouth against mine. "But pretty. Sort of." He touched my hair, brushing a shock of it out of my eyes. I think he was looking for an excuse to disappear. He wanted me to yell at, or smack him, or do something else he wasn't fully prepared for so that he could have an excuse to escape.

"If you wanna pop a couple more pills and stare into space all by yourself then you can just tell me so, but I will not, repeat, _not _hit, scream at, or rape you. I know you wanna believe that every man in the Universe is an abusive monster, who will take advantage of you if they're given the opportunity, but I am not like that. I'm sorry," I whispered, already reaching for the extra pills.

"I think I just need some time to think about…to be honest, everything," he explained, looking at the wall, and sighing. I scooted away a little, giving him some physical space.

"Alright, I'm gonna get you an extra pain pill or two, okay?" House shrugged, but held his hand out and back as if expecting them. I gave him three; he took two, forking the last one back over. "Can I lay next to you, or do you need me to...back off a little?" This time he grabbed my hand, and pulled it around is shoulders, signaling me to hold on tightly, which I did. Then, he got quiet again, and stayed that way for nearly two weeks. I wasn't entirely sure what was happening to him, but understood that sometimes his moods just came on like that, suddenly, and often for no reason. He told me he'd needed to think about something, but didn't explain exactly what. I was worried about him, of course, and apparently, with good reason.

The first day of his silence Greg seemed alright—except for the not talking part—but about midway through the second day I started to realize that he'd gotten sick again, mainly because he pretty much stopped eating, and wouldn't get out of bed, even when he had to use the bathroom. I knew it had to be really bad if he wouldn't try to signal me somehow, and that I'd probably have to take him to the hospital. "I have to take your temperature," I explained, cautiously, knowing full well that he was going to struggle, even though it was an ear thermometer, which is painless and not in the least bit embarrassing. House bit down on his lip, and made a soft whimpering sound, but remained relatively calm. "It goes in your ear, remember?" Despite my expectations, he didn't struggle at all, which told me he didn't have the strength, not that he was okay with what I was doing to him. "100.1 degrees. We gotta go to the hospital and get some meds." He made a soft sound, which could have been a muffled cry or attempted protest, but in the end, went willingly. At least this time it wasn't pneumonia, which would have required hospitalization and IV antibiotics, but rather a mild case of strep throat—no wonder he wasn't talking—which meant I could take him home, and set him up on the couch with a couple of his books, a glass of water, the remote control, and an open bottle of each of his usual meds. He was pretty exhausted, and mostly just lay there staring at the TV set, and ignoring me whenever I tried to talk to (or usually at) him. After three days on the antibiotics, he seemed slightly better, but for the most part, still didn't react.

A few days later I watched as he woke up, looked at me, sort of smiled, and said, "I think I'm being a baby. And you're infantilizing and enabling me." I sighed, and rubbed his shoulders, and stroked his hair gently, pulling his body closer to mine in bed. "See, you never would of done _that_ before. You'd—I dunno. But you wouldn't just let me get away with not talking to you for weeks at a time."

"No, of course not, it's just that, before…you were a barely functioning adult, but you were functioning. Now, you're lucky if you can get through a day without having more than three anxiety attacks. If I treated you exactly the same now as I did then, you'd either kill yourself, or just drop dead of a heart attack. Or is this—you're talking about the pills, aren't you?" He shrugged again. "I know, I was all over you about them before, and now…things are different. Do you feel like you could handle switching to weaker painkillers or anxiety meds? I'm not going to take you off either one completely, or—but if your pain isn't as bad as it was, then maybe you could go back to Vicodin, or maybe we could eliminate a dose of either or both pills from whatever part of the day when you feel the strongest, and…why are you looking at me like that?"

"How come you give me so much?" We'd had this conversation before, many, many times. When House was having a really good day, he felt like I was making his life too easy, I was too gentle with him, treating him like he was made of glass. It was almost like he didn't realize just how bad he was on some of the other days. I sighed again, sitting up, but still holding on to him. "I don't need every little thing to be wonderful and perfect and lovely."

"You don't actually believe that I'm making everything—House, you're in constant, physical pain, ten or twenty times more than you were ten years ago. You're constantly getting sick, pneumonia, strep, ear infections, the stomach flu, you can't walk. Most days you can't talk, or can hardly say more than two words to me, and you have panic attacks. I treat you like you're made of glass because for years you were, literally. And even now, you continue to be incredibly fragile on and off, and I don't always know what you are and aren't capable of handling, and I—" I stopped myself, just short of finishing my sentence, but it didn't make any difference. Greg already knew what I would have said. _I won't risk screwing up and hurting you, or turning you back into that same, terrified little boy who can't even look at me. _

"You don't have to change anything, except... Some days, I can. Some days I'm okay to be more than just a little boy in a big boy's body. You kiss me, you make out with me. And we—I've been thinking about some stuff a lot the last couple of days, since I had that nightmare, it was like a week ago right?" I was a little worried that he had lost time, even though I knew that it was normal for him when he got like that. "The thing is, I don't think that's what the dream was. Honestly, I've been thinking about this for a long time," he confessed.

"What the cop did to you," I asked, carefully, and watched his face. _You idiot, _I thought, and so did he. "No, sorry, something else. You wanna tell me about it, or should I just guess?" He smiled, his eyes all bright and excited like how the used to get sometimes, before we'd ever heard of Detective Michael Tritter.

"Sex," he said, simply, sweetly. "I've been thinking I might be ready to try doing something more than extended make out sessions and snuggling." I was positive he was testing me—if I said okay, or tried to go for it I'd lose him forever—and so I began to prepare one of my speeches, carefully thinking out my response. "Oh, go to Hell," he snapped. "I'm not messing with your head. I want to try—something. Heavy petting, blow jobs, hand jobs, I dunno."

"But you're not sure which one you're ready for," I asked, touching his unshaven cheek. "House, I know you're tired of hearing this, but I've gotta say it again. I don't want to risk making everything worse. I don't want to hurt you more than you already have been."

"Weren't we just having this conversation? I'm _not_ made of glass. Anymore. I'm not going to break. I can tell you to stop. I've done it before. I'm good at saying no to you. Actually, you're the only person who's ever had power over me that I could say no to." That surprised me, and Greg saw it on my face. "Before all of this, I wasn't so good at, when it came to having relationships with men." _You've slept with other men than me, _I almost shrieked.

"Wait, I thought you told me that I was—I mean, you said I wasn't the first guy you had done that with, but you also told me our relationship, or—our um, you said, you usually went for one night stands with guys, and were sort of afraid of doing more than that," I told him. He chuckled, and patted me on the arm gently.

"And you believed me," he asked, sounding positively amazed. "Gee, wiz, Jimmy, I knew you were gullible, but I still can't believe you bought _that _line. Maybe I should have told you I hadn't been with any other guys, asked you to be gentle. Of course, that probably wouldn't have worked too well, especially since I was the one who did you." He smiled, and started playing with my hair, softly. "Look, I know you think that I'm just this pathetic little—child, and maybe some of the time I am, but right now, I want _this. _I need is to feel your hands on my skin, our bodies—I'm not ready for real sex. I know that much. I understand that I might not ever be _there, _but I think I am ready for more than we've been doing. Please," he begged.

"I'm going to need some time to think about this for myself, okay?" Now it was his turn to sigh, and then he pressed his face against my chest, and closed his eyes. "Is that a yes or a no?" He nodded slowly. "Atta boy," I told him, patting the guy on the back. It was amazing. I couldn't count the number of times that I'd wished things could go back to how they had been before. I loved both the before and post Tritter House. He had an incredible body and was the most amazing lover I had ever had. He was also kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart, and I was terrified that he wasn't ready. At the same time, I desperately wanted this and, to be perfectly honest, I hadn't been so confused since this whole mess began. At every step along the way, I had known exactly what to do, 100% of the time.

House had needed me to take care of him because I was the only person who didn't scare the crap out of the poor guy. Okay, no problem. I didn't even have to think about it. Every time he got sick, and needed to go back to the hospital, I took care of everything. I didn't care that it was annoying. I didn't care that there were nurses who probably could do the little tings like take his BP and temperature; it had to be me. When he had nightmares and needed me to hold him, I was there. When he started talking, I didn't push him, but it was amazing, like a gift from God—not that I ever told _him _I thought so. When Tritter was killed, I was there for him. Every time he had a little breakthrough, or a big one; he needed me, and I love him, so I was there. I did what needed to be done because I loved him, and I couldn't imagine any other solution. If I had put him in some sort of "facility," he would never have survived, or thrived, and I wouldn't have made it much longer than he did. So, that just wasn't a possibility.

When we first started kissing and making out, I had nightmares for months. In the dreams, I kissed him and did a reverse Sleeping Beauty on the guy. E went back to how he was in the hospital right after he was attacked only worse. So, naturally, I was terrified, and part of me believed that I'd lose him again, only this time it would be forever. But I got over it, especially because he was okay, with everything. He seemed to enjoy it, and he _could_ tell me to stop. He still had all the problems he'd had before, but sometimes he was so much better than others. But now…this was different. I had no idea what I was doing, or how to help him, or where to go next. When we went to bed that night, I still didn't know anything. I loved Greg, and I told him this much, "I'm sorry. We'll get there eventually. I promise. I will not leave you hanging on this. Give me a couple more days, and I'll figure this out." He rolled his eyes some more, and soon fell asleep, but I knew I wouldn't be able to do the same until I got an answer for him.


End file.
